


Blind Dating

by SuedeScripture



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blind Character, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris makes a new friend and gains a different perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title deliberately borrowed. Story, not so much. This was inevitable. AU is my thing, after all, and stories I intend to be so many chapters end up being twice as much.

It's the second time the guy has come into the shop in the same week. The first time, he'd merely done a circuit of the lower floor, fingertips tracing shelves and the spines of books as he went. It had been Anton who asked him if he needed help, to which the guy replied, with an irony Chris couldn't help but appreciate, "No thanks, just looking," and continued his walkthrough until he'd reached the door again and left.

Which was fine. Despite the state of the publishing business, JJ prefers his bookshop to be the sort where customers can come and go without being assailed at the door in the hopes of buying something. Anton is new and overly eager-to-please, so he hasn't quite picked up on that yet. Today, Zoe is manning the register, so when the guy reaches the check-out counter, notices the little swinging gate and smoothly skirts around, she's been watching with a tender look on her face for a few minutes before she asks sweetly if she can help him find anything.

"No thanks," he says, still moving, but then he stops and backtracks. Chris can only see his shoulders and upper profile from his perch by the second level railing. He's tall, lanky under his loud stripes, with dark, artfully tousled hair and kind of a large nose, perched with aviator sunglasses. He reaches up to pull an earbud from one ear. "Actually, do you sell music? Vinyl?"

Zoe's tone is apologetic, "We don't. But there's a place just down the street that does. On the corner."

"Four corners to a crossing, sweetheart, you've gotta give me one. I'm new around here."

Zoe giggles, and yeah, she's charmed already, "Ummm… south-east, I think? On your right from here, three shops down."

He turns to face her fully, fingers stroking the carved edge of the old wooden counter and inhaling as though he's hesitant to ask. "Do you possibly have books in braille?"

"Sorry," Zoe cringes again, but then brightens. "But we could special order something? Our boss JJ is big on that. If it exists in print, he'll find it for you." 

The guy smiles, "Really?"

"He's not here today, but if you want to stop by on Friday, he should be."

"Okay, I'll do that. Thanks."

The guy makes his way to the door, bumping the little bell tied to the handle. Outside, he smoothly unfolds the cane he's been clutching in one hand, tucks the earbud back in place and heads off to the right, as directed for the music shop.

  


Chris looks up from his novel when the bell tinkles, and then watches as the guy from the other day folds up his cane and skirts the display table at the front of the store with ease now. Shifting on his stool, Chris puts a forefinger in his book to mark his page and silently waits for the guy to reach the check-out counter. The middle finger of his right hand elegantly strokes the edge of it, stopping where the surface roughens from years of people leaning against the carved moulding.

It's probably mean of Chris to fuck with a blind guy, but he stays still and waits to see what will happen.

The guy pauses and then pulls off his aviators, tucking one earpiece down the collar of his purple striped shirt. Chris isn't sure what he expected to be behind them, but it wasn't eyes that are chestnut brown and quite clear, framed with heavy, thick eyebrows that pretty much have his own impressive set beat. He tongues the edge of his lip thoughtfully, and suddenly the guy's head tilts, a corner of his mouth going up.

"The silent type. Okay," he says.

And Chris chuckles, sliding off his stool and leaving the book on the seat. "Sorry, man. What gave me away?"

"You made a noise," he answers, "You made two noises, actually, when I came in and then when I reached this counter just now."

Chris snickers again, shaking his head. "You're good. Here I thought I was being stealthy."

The guy smiles wide, and it changes his face from a little mysterious to pretty dorky. "There was a girl in here the other day, smelled like honeysuckle and jasmine."

"Zoe," Chris says, grinning, "Only girl that works here, and definitely the only one that smells that good."

"She said a guy called JJ could order me something specific in braille. Is that you?" the guy asks.

"Only if I'm short, neurotic and smell like Diet Coke," Chris laughs again, "Actually JJ's out again today, which means he's been struck by his latest idea for a bestseller and is slamming his head against his laptop."

The guy smiles again, and Chris pulls a book from the special order shelf behind him. "Um. I did find this. It's the only braille one we have in stock. It's been sitting around for years."

He pushes it across the counter until it touches the guy's fingers. They slide over and up across the cover, smile widening as they glide over the relief of patterns that make up the title. " _The Hobbit_ , really? I haven't read this since I could actually see." He opens it to a random page, and his fingertips trace across with a smile. "Yup. Still a lot of purple prose about walking. I have the audiobook."

Chris laughs guiltily, looking the guy over speculatively. His eyes are so clear, bright and normal looking, though they hover soft and unfocused over Chris' right shoulder.

"What were you reading?" the guy asks, pushing _The Hobbit_ back to him.

"Huh?"

The guy inclines his head. "You put a book down where you were sitting. I heard the pages when I came in. And there's no one else in here, so, you're the lone bookstore clerk who's reading on the job."

Chris is impressed, reaching for the book behind him. "It's, um. Vonnegut. Old fave."

The guys head tilts again, smile widening, "Which? _Slaughterhouse Five_?"

"Yeah," Chris laughs.

"'Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt,'" he quotes and puts out his hand. "I'm Zach, by the way."

"Chris." They shake.

"Can I see it?" Zach asks, keeping the hand out. "The book."

Chris pauses and puts a grin in his voice, handing the book over, "I don't know. Can you?"

"Don't be a dick." Zach holds the book in both hands, fingers spanning its length and width and testing the give of the pages of the paperback. "This is your own copy," he observes, mouth curling. He opens it to a random page and lifts it to his face to actually sniff the pages. His thumb flicks at the upper corner, feeling the divots of all the dogeared pages, "You couldn't sell one in this condition."

"Got me again," Chris says, shaking his head. "Can I have it back before you start gnawing on it?"

Zach gives it back, head turning even before Anton comes crashing through the door, setting the bell tinkling wildly. He tracks the sound of his sneakers all the way to the counter before he clears his throat and says, "Um, well. I wanted to see if I could order something in braille, but the jasmine girl said I should talk to JJ."

"Because I can't work the ordering system? Try me," Chris challenges.

" _Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close._ "

Chris smiles and types it in to the computer as Anton hovers around him, bouncing until Chris backs off irritably, long enough for the kid to clock in, and then he stares between Zach's cane in his hand and his face. Chris shoos him away, "There are boxes of stuff to be checked in in the back. Go play."

Anton darts off, and Zach seems amused. Chris tries the search in another database, and then another. "Dammit."

"No luck?"

Chris gnaws at his own lip. "Oh! Oh wait no, this is in braille, but it's Danish. What the hell? You don't read Danish do you?"

"Sadly, no."

Chris searches some more. "There's an audiobook," he tries.

"I have it already," he sighs, lips going tight. "I don't think it exists."

Chris studies his crestfallen expression. "Wasn't there a movie?"

"Seen it," Zach says, smile hitching awkwardly. "It was good."

"Sorry, man."

"It's okay," Zach says, straightening as John comes through the door for his shift. "Don't worry about it. Thanks for trying." He turns, hand lightly following the edge of the counter back towards the door.

"Wait a sec," Chris says, clocking himself out, he grabs his hoodie and his moleskine from under the counter as well as the dogeared novel, tucking them under his arm. "I'm off now. Do you want to get a coffee or something? There's a place a couple of blocks away."

Zach's mouth curls again as he pulls the sunglasses from his collar and sets them back on. "That explains it."

"What?"

"Your Vonnegut," Zach smiles. "It smells like dark roast."

Chris laughs, heading for the door and holding it open as Zach makes his way out, letting his cane snap open once out on the sidewalk. His fingers find and then lightly grip Chris' elbow. "Lay on, MacDuff."

  


"New York, wow," Chris ponders, "That must have been… interesting."

"It's crowded. People are rude. But it's like that everywhere, it's just that in Manhattan it's exponentially so." Zach shrugs. His ear catches the sound of a pigeon being scolded by a sparrow under a nearby tree and his smile hitches, "It's a little quieter here, at least in this part of LA. My mom's just thrilled I'm living near family now. She'd still pick out my outfits if she could."

"Maybe she should," Chris kids. He has to admit, Zach's style is eccentric. In the few times he's seen him, he's always been in some loud stripe, or a pair of luridly bright pants. 

"How do you know I don't dress this way on purpose?" Zach arches an eyebrow. "I'm less likely to get run over, at any rate. You'd be surprised how many people don't know this cane is the international symbol for _Hey, I can't fucking see_." 

Chris can believe that. Most people are so self-absorbed these days they don't stop to think how others have it, apparently himself included. "Can I ask you something?" he asks, hesitantly.

"I was in a car accident when I was sixteen," Zach says, matter-of-factly. "I was in a coma for a few weeks, so my eyesight was sort of the least of my worries, as far as the doctors were concerned. By the time they figured it out, the damage was pretty much permanent."

"Oh," Chris knots his eyebrows together. "Actually, I was going to ask why you wanted a braille version of a book you'd already read. Or listened to, or whatever."

"Oh," Zach laughs. His hands pull a piece of his lemon bar off and he pops it into his mouth, chewing. "It's silly. It's just a favorite. And I like having every possible version of favorites."

"How so?"

"You know. Like songs," Zach says, licking the lemon curd off his fingers, "Most songs have at least two recorded versions. Live, acoustic, covers, that sort of thing."

"You asked Zoe about vinyl records," Chris accuses next, "Are you one of those hipsters who's so avante garde you'll only listen to old tech?"

Zach giggles, "If I did, I'd be limiting the fuck out of myself." Suddenly his eyes sharpen and glint. "Says a man who works in a bookstore when the publishing industry's gasping like a goldfish out of water."

Chris makes an aggravated noise at the truth of that statement. "It's true. It's all going to ebooks and all that. I like real books though. I like the feel of them in my hands."

"Me too," Zach agrees, "The smell of the paper. The way really good quality prints have embossed ink you can feel. There's something very satisfying in turning a page." His hands slide over to where Chris had set his books on the wrought iron table, fingers touching the novel, and then the moleskine beneath. They parse out its shape, pushing the novel off and then pause. "Can I?"

"Sure," Chris says, trying to consider the world from Zach's perspective and suddenly feeling like he takes a hell of a lot for granted.

Zach opens the notebook and his fingers brush at the first page, vaguely finding lines of handwritten text where the ballpoint pen depressed the paper. "Is this a journal?"

"No," Chris says absently, "Well, yeah, sort of. It's just shit I write down sometimes."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

Chris arches a brow. "Can you read it?"

Zach sticks his tongue between his teeth and closes his eyes, his fingers following the text from left to right. "Aw man, it's all about whether or not Zoe likes you, and if you should pass her a note. Also your handwriting sucks."

That's patently not what's in there, so Chris laughs, "Fucker."

Zach puts the novel back on top of the notebook and pushes them near Chris' elbow. 

"So what to do you do, Zach?" he asks.

Zach sits back, smiling a little. "I'm an editor."

"Really? Like books and stuff?"

"Sort of," Zach shrugs. "Books, magazine articles. I can edit whatever, but at the moment, I have a deal with a film studio, so it's mostly screenplays. Especially for dialogue. You'd be amazed at the shit that rolls through Hollywood."

"Fuck, I don't have to," Chris laughs, "I've done voicework."

"Yeah? That's not surprising," Zach says. "Everyone comes here to get famous, right?"

Chris makes a slightly irritated sound in his throat, looking down the street, "I was born here. My parents were actors. I've done the behind-the-scenes stuff, because when you know people they practically give the jobs away, but it's not what I want to do. It's work, though. Pays the bills." 

"Nepotism at its finest. What do you want to do?" Zach asks. "Outside of being a bookshop clerk."

"I want to teach. Maybe write someday, I dunno. Both." Chris squints, "Wait, why isn't it surprising? That I've done voiceovers."

Zach tilts his head toward him, "You have a nice voice. And you listen to people's conversations, nosy."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm pretty sure I was asking a girl about braille books the other day, and yet you're the one who bothered to find the only one your shop had in stock? Hmm."

"How do you know I wasn't standing right there?"

Zach grins, "All I smelled was jasmine and honeysuckle. Unless you and Zoe share perfume, and somehow I doubt it would smell quite as feminine on you."

Chris shakes his head, smiling. "You know, for a blind guy, you're really observant."

"I know, it scares the shit out of people," Zach grins wickedly. "What time is it?"

"Uh," Chris glances at his phone, "Half-past six. Sorry, I didn't mean to talk your ear off."

"No, it was nice. Really. I don't know anyone here yet, so," Zach says, "But I should probably get back so I don't step in dog shit when I get home."

"Right," Chris stands, stretching momentarily. He watches as Zach picks up his paper plate and napkin, along with both his and Chris' empty cups, and makes his way to the nearby trash bin just by running his knuckles along table edges and chair-backs so he doesn't bump into anything. Chris has no idea how he even knew it was there.

Grabbing the folded cane from the table, he hands it to Zach. "How do you get home? Bus?"

"Depends on where I am. Where the hell am I?"

Chris laughs, "Corner of 10th and Victor."

"Okay, so, west," Zach pivots on his heel until he's aimed the right direction, pulls his sunglasses back into place from the top of his head and snaps the cane open, navigating out of the coffee shop's fenced patio.

"Okay, you gotta tell me how you did that. Outside of having sonar, or echolocation or something," Chris laughs, and Zach does too.

"I can see a little bit of light, but only if it's really strong, like sunlight," Zach says, "Sun still sets in the west in Cali, right?"

"Yeah," Chris walks beside him, and Zach takes his elbow again. "You have a dog?"

"I do, but he's not a guide dog," Zach grins, "He's completely useless for that. Sees a squirrel and he'll drag my ass through hell before he stops. I have a cat too, but he'll be pissed off under the bed for the foreseeable future after that flight."

Chris laughs at the mental images as they come to a crosswalk and Zach actually stops _him_ from walking in front of a fast-approaching car.

"This is sweet, Chris, but you don't actually have to walk me home," he says after a block of amiable silence.

"I'm not!" Chris says, "This is the way I walk home, I swear. How do you know where you are?"

"Practice. I've been learning the neighborhood since I got here. Counting the blocks. You build a map in your head," Zach pulls out his phone, "There's also an app for that, if I really do get lost."

When they turn off of 4th, Chris grins, "You've got to be kidding me. You live in these apartments?"

"Uh, yeah?" Zach says, "A11, Northwest corner."

"I'm literally right across the street from you," Chris points and realizes like an idiot that Zach can't see it. "Northeast building. C16."

"Well, isn't that just predestined," Zach laughs, and lets Chris continue to follow him to his door on the first level. "Sorry, it's messy still. You don't smell shit, do you?"

"Not yet."

Zach unlocks his door to a very exuberant mutt and an apartment that isn't at all messy, actually. Boxes that haven't been unpacked are pushed well out of the way to the walls. "My brother's supposed to help me finish unpacking, but he had to go out of town to work for a couple of days."

He grabs a leash from the hook by the door, clipping it to the rowdy dog's collar. "Noah, quit it. Um, I should walk him before he explodes."

"Yeah, yeah," Chris says, suddenly inspired. "Hey, give me your phone."

A smile plays at Zach's lips as he hands it over, and the dog lunges out the door, dragging Zach a bit before he gets his bearings and a tight hold. The dog is peeing against a tree in the grassy courtyard when Chris hands it back. "I put my number in there, okay? It's under Pine. So, you know, if you need anything. Or just wanna hang out."

"I'll have to find you an appropriate ringtone," Zach pockets it, a light smirk on his face.

"So, I'll see you," Chris scrubs at his hair, grinning back.

"I won't," Zach deadpans. Chris shakes his head and jogs off across the street, pausing outside his stairwell to watch as Zach walks the dog along the grass. When it eventually squats to take a dump, and Zach has to suit up with a poop bag on both hands to clean it up. He can vaguely hear him saying, "Come on, Noah, don't walk off while you shit. Oh my god, you're such an asshole, I don't even know why I rescued you."

Chris can't help but snicker, though he's wary of the man's extraordinary hearing even from this distance. This guy's interesting, alright.


	2. Chapter 2

Saturday morning has Chris carrying two cups of coffee across the street to Zach's door. He shifts them around, tucking one hot cup into the notch of his elbow in order to knock. Inside, the dog goes off and he grins, listening to the shushing and shuffling inside.

But it isn't Zach who answers. It's a guy who looks a lot like him, only scruffier, stockier and with vivid blue eyes that definitely function just fine. "Who are you?" he says warily through the few inches of space between the door and jamb, keeping the dog from escaping.

"Chris. Zach and I met at the bookstore the other day."

"Joe, let him in," comes Zach's voice from inside, and the guy grudgingly does so, still eyeing him up and down like he suspects Chris might be packing a gun. He tries for a disarming smile, tucking one coffee cup into his elbow again to offer his hand. "Chris Pine."

"This is my brother, Joe," Zach says, sitting cross-legged in the desk chair with a box of wires to various electronics in his lap. "Don't be rude, Joseph," he intones in what must be imitation of their mother, which pulls a crooked smile to Chris' face. Joe ignores Chris' hand and merely grunts a greeting before going behind the desk where he's setting up a computer system.

"I brought coffee, but, uh…" Chris cringes apologetically, having only brought two cups, and he's already drunk half of his own. He strides over to set one down on the desk near Zach's arm.

"Coffee at your nine o'clock," Joe mutters, eyeing Chris from behind the monitor like he's a moron, "You could always go back and get me one."

Chris' eyebrows take flight at this guy's gall, even if he is chastised for not telling Zach where he set the cup.

"My brother's a jackass," Zach mutters, reaching for the coffee, "if you were at all confused."

 _Not really_ , he thinks, and would say if he knew these people better. Instead he squats down to make friends with Zach's dog Noah, who seems markedly friendlier than his brother, mopping Chris' hands with his tongue and then tumbling over for belly rubs.

"Can I help?" he asks, standing once the dog is bored of him. It was his original plan after all, to come help Zach unpack if he hadn't already.

"You don't have to," Joe says. "That's what I'm here for."

Chris licks his lips and folds his arms over his chest, squaring up his stance to glare back at the guy. "And yet I still want to help."

"Put your penises away, guys, it's not a contest," Zach snorts. "You can tackle whatever's around, Chris. Just tell me what's in the boxes and I'll tell you where to put it."

Chris pats him on the shoulder and decides to tackle the stack of boxes by the shelves. There isn't a lot of need to ask where things go; whoever had helped Zach pack in New York had neatly labeled each box with its contents and even which piece of furniture they coincided with. He pulls one toward him labeled 'Vinyl Albums Box 2: Stereo Shelf: Living Room' and opens it, finding a wide array of records that Zach must have scoured most of the East Coast for. Each one has a braille label stuck on the upper left corner.

"He likes those in alphabetical order, if you can handle that," Joe says to Chris, now carrying another box of electronics to the desk as he passes. 

"Oh my god, seriously, I'm going to kick you out," Zach growls, chucking a bound cord at Joe with surprising accuracy; it hits him in the thigh. "Play nice."

"Kick me out and you won't be set up to work," Joe sets the box down and noogies Zach's head, making his hair flop wildly everywhere.

"I'll figure it out my-fucking-self, asshole," Zach fights him off. "I took it apart, I can put it back together."

"Sure you could. In three days."

Over the rest of the morning Zach and Joe finish the set up of Zach's workspace, while Chris makes his way through the stack of boxes meant for the living room shelves, including all of Zach's music, lots of old audiobooks in both cassette tape and CD form, and the rather small group of braille books. Chris can't help but cringe a little. There are classics, sure: Hemingway, Steinbeck, Shakespeare. The rest are hot list bestsellers by big name authors: a couple of Grisham's, Dan Brown, even James fucking Patterson, but the spines are barely even creased; from the page-wear they look like Zach only got a few chapters in before he gave up. 

"Are these all the books you have?" he asks.

"Why do you think I came asking?" Zach smiles knowingly, "Pretty sad selection, huh? There aren't many books being printed in braille anymore. You get classics or sales giants, and pretty much nothing in between."

Chris pouts openly at that. Classics are great, but there's a wealth of fantastic literature that skates way under the radar of the New York Times commercial successes. Even the book Zach had asked for with its signal boost from the film industry didn't have a braille copy.

A section of his books are actually on learning braille itself, most of which appear to be written for children. These occupy him for some time, trying to learn the new language and noting that it's really fucking hard. He can't imagine how frustrated Zach must have been, learning all this.

As Chris nears the end of the stack, settled comfortably on the carpet, a black and white cat slinks cautiously from the end of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, peering around the corner with wide yellow eyes. Making a quiet cricket chirp between his lips, Chris stays still and scrunches his fingers on the rug to entice the animal out further.

"What is that?" Zach asks, suddenly freezing, head tilted at the noise.

Before Chris can stop, Joe answers for him, "It's your friend the cat whisperer."

Zach brightens, "Did Harold finally come out?"

"Is that your name?" Chris speaks lowly to the cat, who moves closer to sniff Chris outstretched fingers and then rub his cheek across them.

Joe snorts, "That cat hates everyone."

"He hates you, not everyone," Zach corrects, and Harold flattens his ears at Joe before he pads around Chris, smelling at his clothes and occasionally rubbing against him.

"Seems like he figures I'm okay," Chris says smugly.

"Harold is an excellent judge of character," Zach grins happily, "I have him vet all my peeps."

"I guess I pass the peep test," Chris laughs as the cat climbs in his lap.

At lunchtime Chris orders pizza, which both brothers disparage even as they wolf it down and talk longingly about East Coast pie and hoagies. Afterwards, Zach inspects the finished living room area, learning the organized space, Chris and Joe occasionally telling him what is where. When Zach insists on taking Noah for a walk in the nearby park, he and Joe openly argue about it, Joe being cautious and Zach irritated at the assumption that he shouldn't or _can't_ walk his own dog. In the end, he moves on ahead, letting the long leash out so the dog can run laps around him.

Chris watches and laughs, but Joe just shakes his head.

"Mom talked him into getting him a dog. She had an absolute fit when he moved to New York. She wanted to get him a guide dog, but they're expensive as hell and only certain people qualify, I guess; the application process was ridiculous. So he just went to the shelter and got that damned mutt."

"Yeah?" Chris asks, shrugging, "That's moms for you. Weren't you worried?"

"Hell yeah, I was," Joe glowers at him. "I told him to move out here years ago, but he wouldn't. Said he wanted to let it all go, make his own way."

Chris kicks at the grass, leaning against a tree. "I can't blame him for wanting his independence. I think it's cool that he manages as well as he does."

Joe eyes him strangely, "Listen, what do you want with my brother?"

Chris blinks at him for a second, "I… nothing, I just met the guy." He looks off at Zach and the dog, now frolicking in the grass together, "I just figure he could use a friend out here, that's all."

"A friend." Joe stares at him like he's certain he has far more malicious intentions.

Chris lifts passive hands in the air, "Yeah, a friend. People you hang out with for fun? What's your problem with me, man?"

Joe sighs, scrubbing the back of his head and then abruptly heads over to where Noah has just tangled Zach's legs together with his leash.

  


In the next couple of weeks, Chris learns that how he spends time with his friends directly impacts how he relates to them as people. With several of his old high school buddies, he realizes he can do nothing but talk baseball or basketball, or failing that, play baseball or basketball. With Zoe he can get girl advice, and while she hadn't been exactly helpful in the aftermath of his last break-up, Zoe is the sort of girl who has no qualms whatsoever about revealing the precise inner workings of women's minds, especially when it comes to what they think about the men in their life (even if half the time they don't make any sense). Anton is both naive and fucking filthy, reminding Chris an awful lot of himself at the same age, whereas John is on the opposite spectrum now that he's married with kids, and a riot even on a bad day with his dry humor and anecdotes on family life—"Dude. You hear stories about diaper explosions. You wonder how that works, and if it's really _that bad_. But until you truly experience a diaper explosion… you have No. Fucking. Idea."

Zach proves to be a different sort of friend. He doesn't spend Sundays watching the game, or having people over for barbecues or movies or video game nights. Zach doesn't have a TV. That isn't to say he doesn't enjoy movies or television from time to time. He was happy to spend an evening on Chris' sofa eating popcorn and watching a DVD, but he was rightfully picky and Chris had to read off at least twenty titles in his collection before Zach settled on one. Action flicks don't do much for him. He likes well-written comedies, dramas, mysteries or plotty thrillers with lots of quality dialogue. He loves musicals. He says he'd gone to see _Les Mis_ and had been fascinated by the singing, despite the critical lambasting over just that. "I've never heard it done so emotionally," he says.

There's an ease with which Zach moves around his world that Chris admires. As soon as he's fully moved in, Zach quickly becomes so familiar with his apartment that he moves around it as if he isn't blind at all—although Chris learned the hard way that he had to be sure not to leave his shoes in the middle of the path and felt like a douche for an afternoon. 

Finding that Zach was using their apartment complex's crummy weight machines, Chris gets him a membership at his own gym. Zach is thrilled to swim in the pool, use the ellipticals, and join a yoga class. And after a few easy laps around the gym's upper level track, Zach talks him into jogging outside. Chris is initially skeptical, considering any time he's seen Zach wear shorts, he's inevitably got bruised up shins and knees. But the rules for a sighted lead are easy enough: Chris has to keep his pace (more like keep up with Zach's long-ass legs), and watch their path to be sure there aren't any obstacles that will trip him up: no cracks or dips in the pavement, raised manholes, no terrain changes or downed branches or dog shit if they cut through the park. Zach doesn't need to grip his hand after a couple of minutes, he follows just by the sound of his feet. They even try taking Noah once or twice, but the dog proves too excited and unruly at speed, to a point that he's a danger of knocking them both down, so that's nixed.

Zach is good at Scrabble, using a braille tiled set he's got and a little help from Chris at keeping the tiles straight on the board, but he's even better at chess. He somehow keeps a mental image of the entire board and every move as it's made, as long as the ranks and files are properly spoken aloud. Chris simply can't beat him without cheating (which Zach caught him at by the sound of him moving a piece to a different square). 

Eventually he does the only thing he can do to see the man beaten—he challenges Zach to a game with Anton. The board is brought to the bookshop, set up at the children's reading table, and with everyone including the occasional customer watching, the game is on.

In an hour, Anton has him checked into a corner, and Zach has to individually touch each piece to be absolutely certain it coincides with his mental image, lips tight and pout grumpy. "Fine," he concedes, knocking over his king. "Unfair. I still say the whiz kid cheated and you just aren't telling me."

After they close the shop down, they all head out to a nearby pub, sitting on the patio in the muggy evening heat with burgers, fish-and-chips and salads soon decimated and empty beer glasses becoming a rank of soldiers around the umbrella pole.

Anton is trying to explain exactly where Zach's game had gotten him in trouble. "No, I'm saying you didn't use the Sicilian Defense correctly, that was your error from the beginning. Look, when you—"

"Can't look," Zach interrupts, and smiles wickedly at the absolutely mortified silence that goes around the table. Anton turns bright pink to his ears, every ounce of his post-game smugness dropping off of his face.

Chris cackles, pounding Anton on the back and scrubbing at his curls. "Relax, kid, he's fucking with ya."

"I know, but… but…"

"Aw," Zach lilts, reaching for Anton's shoulder. "It's cool, man. For real. Here." He takes his folded cane from his lap and wraps Anton's hands around it, tipping his shades down his nose as if looking over them. "You can hold my guide to the universe."

"Thank you?" Anton stutters, looking at the cane in his hands like he might break it.

"Oh my god, is he as cute as he sounds?" Zach asks.

"Yes," says the group in unison, just to turn Anton a more neon shade of fuchsia. Then laughter splutters off, and the silence becomes a little uncomfortable as Zach drains his latest beer and announces, "Right, actually, I need that back so I can find the right place to pee." He stands and Anton swiftly gives the cane back. Zach waves a gesture at the group, "This is your obligatory opening to talk about my plight, guys, have fun."

He easily finds his way to the pub door and is gone, and it's Zoe who's the first to pipe up. "He is so adorable."

Chris lifts his eyebrows, "Anton? He is." He snuggles Anton's shoulder and gets shoved off with a string of filthy swearing.

"No, you," Zoe leers at him, tipping him a wink that the others fail to notice. "I hope he's okay in there."

Chris snorts, "Zoe, he can piss by himself." He knows what she means, though; they'd chosen to eat outside because the game on the TVs in the pub made it rowdy and crowded, and Zach will have navigate through that to get to the bathrooms and back. But Chris has seen that Zach is more than capable of handling himself over the last few weeks.

"I'm gonna head out," says John, once the waitress brings out a carton of food he'd ordered to bring home for Kerri. "Tell Zach I'll see him," he points at Anton with a grin as he walks away.

"Oh ha fucking ha!" Anton bites out, still smarting, though his anger simmers down as he lowers his voice, "I wish we could ask him about it."

"You can," Chris says, finishing his own beer. "He's not going to melt into a puddle of emotions just because you bring up the obvious. He wouldn't be so self-deprecating if he was."

"Yeah, but it's not… like, I dunno. Politically correct."

"Neither is your sentence structure." 

Anton returns to picking at his fries, while Zoe answers a text from someone before Zach makes his way back.

"Resounding silence," he says, standing by the chair he vacated. "Is this still the right table? Because I've done that before too."

"Who the bloody hell are you, boyo?" Chris puts on the accent he'd picked up from his few months in England one summer. Zach's face actually falters for half a second and Chris snorts, returning to his normal voice, "Sit the fuck down, man."

"Where'd John go?" Zach says as he sits, folding the cane again.

"Damn, how can you tell that?" Zoe exclaims.

Zach nods to her in acknowledgement, "Sounds different. You're here. Anton's here. Chris..."

"Present. John left to go feed the wife," Chris folds his arms, glancing at the uncomfortable looks of his other two coworkers. "The masses want to know your sob story, Zach."

"Prick," Anton bites off.

"Do they now?" Zach smiles, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head and leans back. "Alright. Twenty Questions. Go."

"Each?" Anton asks.

"Between all of you. Nineteen."

"What happened?" Anton jumps to it, curiosity winning over his prior embarrassment. "If something happened. And why do your eyes look normal?"

"Traumatic retinal detachment, is the technical term," Zach says. He briefly recounts his accident, and that he not only had a severe concussion, but also dislocated vertebrae in his neck and broke both his ankles. There's stunned silence after this and Zach smirks, "Come on, look, I'm all better. Sixteen more."

"Do you just see black?"

"I see nothing. Black is a thing," Zach answers. "I see light sometimes, but it's more like feeling it, not seeing it."

"How do you take a leak?" Anton giggles, and Zoe stands to try to whack him across the table.

"See, I go in to the bathroom," Zach says, "I find the urinal… but wait, sometimes there aren't urinals, and then I realize I'm in the wrong bathroom. Whoops."

"Good way to pick up chicks, though," the kid waggles his eyebrows, ignoring Zoe's ice cold gaze.

"If you're into that, sure, I suppose," Zach says, "Also a good way to get arrested, even if you say, 'But I really didn't see anything, Officer, I swear'."

"That didn't happen!" Zoe dismisses skeptically, and points to Anton, "And you are on shop toilet duty for a month. I mean it."

"Okay, it didn't. Technically, the officer was off-duty, and she let me off with a warning," Zach grins wide and looks mischievous. "I get away with a lot."

"Was it hard?" Zoe asks, anger wilting to sympathy, "In the beginning."

Zach's face softens in the seriousness of that. "Yeah, it was. It sucked at first. A lot. I couldn't do anything by myself. I didn't go outside without someone else with me for years. I had to relearn everything. It was very claustrophobic." The table has gone completely silent, and Zach pauses in thought. "Then I realized that in order to get away from that, I had to suck it up and do things by myself. After that it was a matter of getting other people to let me. And that's still a daily occurrence. Some people are better at it than others."

His head turns in Chris' direction, and Chris can't help but smile a little, thinking of their jogging routine.

"Isn't there anything they can do? Surgery or something?" Zoe coos.

"At this point it would be minimal," Zach says, and his answer sounds canned, like he's given it before. "They could probably fix it so I could see light and dark, or maybe some shapes if I was really lucky. But I'd still be blind. There's not really any benefit to it now."

"That's just not fair," Zoe sighs, taking his hand on the table compassionately, and Chris has to roll his eyes at the level of pity hovering over the whole conversation. Especially from the couple of women sitting at the next table, listening in. He glares until they realize they're staring.

But Zach merely squeezes her hand back. "It's not a big deal. I've been this way for longer than I could see. I'm used to my life this way."

"But don't you miss things you remember seeing?"

Zach shrugs, "There are some things I miss. Colors. Trees. Movies. Faces," He pauses and smiles, "But it's good too. I'll never have to see my mom get old. She'll always be as young and pretty to me as she was that morning."

Zoe looks like she's about to cry, and Chris mutters, "Lay off the waterworks, Zoe, if he says it's not a big deal, then it isn't."

One of Zach's eyebrows goes up, with the corner of his mouth.

"But you'll never see what your friends look like either," Zoe insists. "You'll never see what _you_ look like."

Zach snorts with a laughter, "Believe me, if there's one thing I'm glad I don't have to look at anymore, it's my own reflection."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a _dork_ , that's why," Zach keeps giggling incredulously—and granted he does look a little dorky when his nose scrunches up like that—"The least I can hope for is that I can find a hairdresser that doesn't revert me to the bowl cut ever again, and do something with my awful eyebrows."

Zoe stares at him, mouth dropped open. Chris shakes his head at her, eyeing Zach again. It shouldn't be surprising, but it is. Zach hasn't seen his own face and body in years, not since he was a teenager, probably awkward and coltish and legitimately dorky as anything back then. Chris can commiserate exactly how that is; his own pubescent years weren't kind to him either, to a point where he still can't quite figure out how anyone thinks he's attractive now. He doesn't look at guys all that much, but Zach's good looks are kind of undeniable.

"Do you know anyone?" Zach asks Zoe. "I haven't had a haircut since I got here, and I really need one. It's always weird going to a new stylist. I have to trust them to make me look okay, you know. If they wanted, they could play some mean jokes on me."

Zoe bites her lip against her thoughts and presses a hand to his cheek. "Baby, you look just fine, I promise," sweeping her thumb over one dark eyebrow. "I'll take you to my girl, she'll take good care of you. I've been trying to get Chris to go to her for years, get his eyebrows done."

"Hey!" Chris growls. "There's nothing wrong with my eyebrows."

He's ignored as another round of beers comes out, and Zoe gasps, "Oh my god, how do you shop?"

Zach points at her and then himself, "You, me, shopping. We're going. I have to have someone to go with me anyway. And you better be detail oriented."

"It's on," she says, grabbing his hand again, "Saturday? I'll call Natalie too, get you a hair appointment."

"I warn you, I'm a picky bitch about my clothes," Zach says grinning.

Zoe flaps a hand at him. "Honey, you're in good company."

They exchange phone numbers while Anton gets a text and blurts out, "I gotta go."

"Is your mom calling?" Chris jabs, glancing at a non-existent watch, "Uh-oh, is it past your curfew?"

Anton stands, dropping some cash for his food, a sly tilt to his head, "Chris, if that was my mom, I would not be running off right this second."

"Oh my god, it's a booty call!" Chris announces loudly to the rest of the patio patrons, just to get that color to rise on the kid's face again as he vaults the patio fence. "Hey! Remember to use protection!"

"Chess-whiz! Cheesewhiz?" Zach's face lights up at this new nickname and points after him. "Same time next week. I'm gonna kick your ass."

"No, you won't," and the kid saunters off down the street.

Once he's out of earshot, Zoe turns her mock-wrath on Chris, "You are so mean to him!"

"I am not!" he defends, "Come on, he can obviously take it as well as dish it out."

"He's just a baby."

"He's twenty-four. Say that to his face," Chris dares. "Besides, you put him on toilet duty."

"Whatever, I don't care," Zoe shows him the palm of her hand, "He looks twelve, so Mamabear can give him chores and come to his defense when you tease, okay."

"Zach, help me out," Chris gestures widely, "The kid just ditched us to get laid. It's bro-code to tease. Yes or no?"

"Yes," Zach cringes, "Sorry, Mamabear. Is he really so cute, though?"

"So cute," Zoe reiterates, getting louder the more drunk she gets, "I wanna keep him in my pocket. Oh my god, see? You'll never get to see that!"

"Well, tell me! All I'm imagining is Elijah Wood or something. Of course, the last time I saw that kid in a movie, he really was twelve."

"Wow. Not far off the mark," Zoe laughs. "You got the big blue eyes down. Oh shit, do Chris! Who does he look like in your head?"

Chris rolls his own eyes so hard they might fall out. "Zoe, stop it. Lay off him."

"Oh, don't act like you don't want to know," she snaps with a shark-toothed smile, even as Zach is aiming his smile at his lap. "What, now you're shy?"

"No. It's just silly."

"Do it, do it!"

Zach bites his lip, angling his face toward where Chris sits with Anton's vacant chair between them, inhaling as if in thought. "Cool Water."

"What?"

"Is that right? Davidoff Cool Water?" Zach asks, "Your cologne?"

Chris squirms a little in his seat. Zach can smell him from two seats away? If he could smell Zoe's perfume across the counter at work, he can probably smell Chris too. "I… yeah, but..."

"I remember those commercials," Zach grins downward again, coyly sticking his tongue between his teeth. "There was always a certain kind of man in them. You know, blue jeans, white shirt, hot day, and then he dives into some lagoon that matches his eyes."

Zoe has slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes bugging across at Chris as she wheezes into them.

"What?" Zach turns his head between them, "Did I get it right?"

"No," Chris laughs, scrubbing at his hot face. "Completely off-base, man. I don't look anything like that."

"Oh, Zach, if you could see how right you are," she cackles, still sparkling at Chris. "Baby, you're blushing."

"I am not."

"Oh god, I love my boys," Zoe downing the last of her beer. 

"How about Zoe, Zach?" Chris drills her with a wicked look, knowing she'd love to know as well. "What 1980's diva does she compare to?"

Zach chuckles, finding Zoe's hand on the table, pretending to gaze in her direction. "I got nothing. Obviously, sweetheart, you're incomparable." He punctuates it by kissing her knuckle, lips delicate and sure. Zoe virtually melts. _You slick bastard_ , Chris thinks, shaking his head.

Inside, it's clear the game has ended as patrons begin to pour out. The streets are dark and the patio begins to clear out. Zoe sighs, checking the time on her phone, "Dammit, I should go too. I have practice in the morning."

"Yeah, Noah will need to go out," Zach stands as Zoe does, "Should we see you home?"

She goes up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and straighten his collar, "Such a gentleman, too. But I'm across town from here, honey; I'll take the bus. Saturday, yeah?" She levels a commanding stare at Chris, "You get him home safe." The _or I'll kill you_ is implied.

"Yes, Mom," Chris mutters, gathering the collection of money each member left on the table to pay their bill. Once he's taken care of that inside, he finds Zach waiting by a newspaper stand and lets him take his arm. Zach's steps are just this side of less-than-steady.

"I love Zoe," Zach drawls, "She's fucking fierce."

"She is," Chris agrees. Zoe's always been a surprise. She's unquestionably girly, all long sensuous limbs and that dancer's grace, but she hangs it all out with 'her boys', as she always calls them. Chris won't pretend he didn't have a huge crush on her when he first started at the bookshop, and he tells Zach so.

"I don't doubt it," Zach says, and abruptly lurches hard into his shoulder. "Shit. Sorry. I might be a little drunk."

"You might be?" Chris laughs, "Is it irresponsible to let your blind friend get hammered?"

"Only if you don't take him home," Zach slurs.

They get to Zach's with only a few more stumbles on the way, and Chris takes Noah out himself after he deposits Zach on his sofa. When he returns he finds Zach still slumped there.

"You okay?" he asks, going to Zach's kitchen to get him a glass of water, and as an afterthought gets one for himself, feeling fuzzy around the edges. He slinks back and hands him one, dropping beside him on the couch to down half of his own.

"Yeah. This was fun," Zach says, after he's drunk his whole glass and set it down. He's all limbs, sprawled out like this with his knees splayed and arms draped across the cushions. "I like it here."

"Yeah," Chris smiles, setting his own glass down and flopping back. His head bumps Zach's arm, and a second later, Zach's fingers are pushing into the hair at the back of his head, tugging lightly to feel the length and texture, down his nape where it's trimmed cleanly at his neck. Scalp tingling, Chris doesn't move for a second, and only then to turn his head and see Zach's expression. His face is contemplative, his eyebrows drawn down and mouth slightly open. In another second, he pulls his hand away.

"Sorry. Does it bother you?"

"What?"

"If I'm handsy with you."

Chris hesitates. Zach touching him like this—reaching automatically for his elbow to be led, holding his hand briefly as they start to run, fingers brushing over his own as he tries to teach him to read braille—it probably should bother him. But it doesn't. He darts his tongue out and shrugs, "No. It's how you see."

Zach smiles softly, closing his eyes. His eyelashes fan out over his cheekbones. "You didn't ask any questions."

"Huh?"

"Twenty Questions all about Zach," he says, "You didn't even have one. There are seven left, by the way."

"I don't have any," Chris grins, thinking back to that Cool Water remark. He closes his own eyes and tries to detect the smell of Zach, but he's just not getting anything besides the aroma of new paint and carpet cleaner that's still lingering in Zach's apartment. "Wait, yeah I do. How the fuck do you _smell_ me?"

Zach's smile stretches wide, though he keeps his eyes closed. "Same way you do. I just notice it more."

"I'm going to shower a lot more often, knowing you."

Zach rumbles a laugh, "You're not olfactorily offensive. Except at the gym. Or that time we had Tex Mex."

"Oh god," Chris snorts, "A guy I actually have to watch farting around, really?"

"Like it stops my brother. He's putrid sometimes." Zach yawns, "What do you do with your mouth?"

Chris' stomach makes a funny wobble, "Huh?"

"You do this thing with your mouth all the time, this sound," Zach inclines his head toward him, sounding tired yet curious, eyes still closed. "I hear it."

Chris swipes his tongue across his lip and knits his eyebrows, perplexed.

"That," Zach raises his hand and taps Chris' head. "You just did it."

"What? Lick my lips?"

"Is _that_ what it is?" Zach grins, eyes opening again, his eyelashes half-mast.

Chris licks his lips again—dammit!—and laughs, "I guess I do."

Zach rumbles a low laugh, his eyes sparkling.

"Fuck you, now I'm gonna think about it all the time." Chris stands, picking up the glasses to put in the sink, "And I'm switching to Old Spice or Axe or something."

Zach makes a face, "Ew. No."

Chris smiles and shakes his head, "Are you gonna be okay if I go? I'm not going to come over here in the morning, find you with your head bashed in and feel like a huge douchebag?"

Zach makes a face, "Yes, Christopher, I'm so drunk I might fall down. Which isn't a possibility in my life every day. It would be better if you put me to bed."

Chris hesitates at the innuendo he knows is there, grabbing his keys and giving Noah's head a scrub followed by Zach's over the back of the sofa, "I'm just afraid your brother will kill me in my sleep."

"If I bash my head in or if you put me to bed?"

"Verdict's out," Chris says, pulling the door open. "Run, nine AM?"

"Better make it ten, and bring coffee."


	3. Chapter 3

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Zach mumbles to himself with a sigh, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back in his desk chair.

Chris looks up from where he's parked on Zach's sofa with his own laptop. It's become commonplace to spend his time at Zach's doing online coursework toward a teaching certificate; time he'd otherwise be home alone, or at the coffee shop getting far too hyped up on caffeine when he isn't on the clock at the bookstore. Even in the companionable quiet of Zach listening to his screen reader through his headphones, Noah snoring from his dog bed and Harold in a little purring loaf on the back of the sofa, it makes the work go by faster.

Zach groans again, pulling his headphones down and tilting his head, "Chris, still here? Come here for a sec."

Setting his laptop aside, Chris goes to the desk, watching Zach highlight a piece of text, his right hand on his trackball and his left moving over his braille strip to read the text as it pops up. The gadgets Zach has for his work are kind of fascinating. The only reason for the visual display is for sighted people to see what he's doing.

"Read this shit," Zach tells him.

Chris smirks, "Aren't there confidentiality rules about that? Studios are viciously protective of script leaks, aren't they?"

"If this garbage gets leaked, trust me, it's no one's loss," Zach scoffs. "If it gets anywhere near the hands of even a D-list actor, I will be… well, I won't be surprised at all, but I don't want my name attached to it. Seriously. Enlighten yourself to my turmoil."

Chris squints at the text on the screen and scans the lead up of two characters apparently in the throes of some disaster, and reads the last line aloud. "'I love you so deeply. Even with your stupid fantasy football obsession, I can't go on without telling you before we die. So I just want you to know. You complete me'." Chris can't help his chortling halfway through, "Oh man. Really?"

"Right?" Zach says, "This is what I've been dealing with all morning. Please shoot me."

"It's like _Star Wars: Episode II_ meets _Jerry Maguire_."

"Meets Zombie Apocalypse," Zach laughs. "It actually sounded better with your voice instead of my reader, but even that doesn't help it much."

"Can you rewrite it?"

"That's not what I'm paid for, sadly," he says, growling irritably and rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes, then groping in the desk drawer and not finding what he wants. "Can you get—"

"Eye drops?"

"Yeah."

Chris squeezes his shoulder and heads down the hall to Zach's bathroom to find the little bottle of artificial tears he uses because apparently he forgets to blink enough ("If I keep my eyes closed when I work, I'll just fall asleep listening to this crap," he says). Glancing in the bedroom on his way out, he stops short.

There's an instrument case peeking out from under the foot of the bed, farther out than it is under, as if it's been hastily stowed. Which is out of character; Zach's usually meticulous nature for putting things away is necessary for the sake of stubbed toes. Inside it, when Chris gives in to curiosity, is an honest-to-god banjo, with a maple wood neck, bowtie inlays, and a shining silver resonator.

"You've been holding out on me," he says, when he returns to the living room with the eye drops and the banjo.

"Hmnh?" Zach hums, distracted as he tilts his head back.

Chris lightly strums the strings of the banjo, making them twang.

Zach looks back down at the sound, wiping away a wet smear down his cheek and smiling. "I wasn't holding out. Someone's nosy."

"Well, here, play something," Chris thrusts the banjo at him, and Zach just laughs. "Dueling Banjos. Devil Went Down to Georgia. Come on, hit me."

"I'm nowhere near that good," Zach giggles, strumming a little.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be into the Honky Tonk scene," Chris grins, sitting on the arm of the sofa as Zach plucks the strings and twists the tuners.

Zach levels his face at him, as much a direct stare as he can manage to contest hotly, "Banjo isn't all Honky Tonk, you know. It's a very versatile instrument."

"Oh yeah?" Chris challenges, then is struck by an idea. "You know what? Fuck work for a while. Let's go to the park. And bring that."

"Bring my banjo to the park?"

"Yeah." Standing, Chris shuts his laptop and books where he left them on the coffee table and grabs Noah's leash, making the dog jump up with excitement. "We'll bring Noah, but I'm gonna run home for a minute. I'll take him with me and I'll meet you there."

Ten minutes later, he finds Zach sitting in the grass beneath a large jacaranda, strumming lazily on the banjo, and Noah runs up to him as though he's been away for ages.

Chris ties Noah's long leash around the tree and settles down next to Zach, flipping open his own guitar case. "You're not the only one who held out," he says as he loops the strap over his shoulder and gives it a strum, watching Zach's face light up.

"Oh my god. You play too! Is that regular acoustic?"

"Plain old six string, yeah," Chris tunes his strings, squinting as the sun filters down through the leaves. The park is wide and on a bit of an incline, frequented by joggers, picnickers, nannies with the diaper-clad charges, and the occasional dog walker. You could find the occasional busker here sometimes, though it wasn't a tourist area. On a Thursday afternoon, it wasn't too crowded.

Over the next hour, they raise and one-up with as much musical knowledge as they have between them. Chris listens as Zach explains the various banjo techniques and demonstrates how they sound, though he claims not to know them well, having only played for a few years. Chris goes over things he learned mostly from his grandpa years ago and just from mimicking popular music, ranging from James Taylor to Pink Floyd riffs.

In a quiet moment, Chris strikes up the familiar tune, a classic he loves simply because he grew up with it from his parents' musical tastes. After making sure he has the chords right, he licks his lips, closes his eyes and sings.

_I am just a poor boy_  
 _Though my story's seldom told_  
 _I have squandered my resistance_  
 _For a pocket full of mumbles_  
 _Such are promises_  
 _All lies in jest_  
 _Still, a man hears what he wants to hear_  
 _And disregards the rest_

_When I left my home and my family_  
 _I was no more than a boy_  
 _In the company of strangers_  
 _In the quiet of the railway stations_  
 _Running scared_

It's only when Chris opens his eyes and sees the look on Zach's face that his heart starts slamming itself against his ribcage. His voice falters and his fingers soon stumble, stopping the strings vibrating with his palm.

Zach's mouth is parted, and his eyebrows drawn tight, and eyes wide and dark and shining—wet, Chris realizes at the way his long eyelashes spike together. Though that could be residual from the eye drops, he supposes.

"Why'd you stop?" Zach asks, and it has to be his imagination that he's a bit breathless.

Chris chuckles a little, his face hot. "Ah, just got distracted, I guess. Noah just did a... a funny twitch. Having a puppy dream." It's an outright lie, though Noah's been crashed out in the grass for twenty minutes, but he feels awkward now, and unsure of why.

Zach takes a deep breath in, shifting the banjo in his lap. "You have an incredible voice, Chris."

Mumbling a vague thank you, Chris squirms against the feeling in his gut, warm and weird and not completely unpleasant, but he still feels like he's crossed some sort of invisible boundary he doesn't remember setting. The last time he'd sung for anyone was for an old girlfriend.

Biting his lip for a minute, Zach smiles, "There's a new version of it with really good banjo accompaniment. Here, you do the chords again, and I'll come in."

Chris eyes him sidelong in the sun. "You're just trying to make me sing again."

"Guilty," Zach's smile stretches wider, "Indulge me, and I'll do Garfunkel's part."

Chris smirks, and starts up the chords again, going through them twice before his gets the courage to sing the first verse again, but then Zach comes in with both the banjo and his harmony, and his unease falls away.

They sing through the whole thing, gaining confidence and getting loud and exuberant with their _lie-la-lie's_. Chris soon loses all awareness of the rest of the people in the park, since Zach never gave a fuck about them to begin with.

The last verse Zach sings alone, because Chris is struck by his face again, and how emotionally invested he is in it.

_In the clearing stands a boxer_  
 _And a fighter by his trade_  
 _And he carries the reminder_  
 _Of every glove that laid him down_  
 _And cut him 'til he cried out_  
 _In his anger and his shame_  
'I am leaving, I am leaving'  
 _But the fighter still remains_

When they finish, there's a surprising amount of applause from other patrons of the sunshine, making Zach giggle and Chris laugh and wave bashfully, scrubbing at his face.

"You're not a bad singer either," he says, because it's the truth. "You didn't tell me."

"Things you don't know about me, yet you've seen all evidence of," Zach's smile is sweet. "I have the soundtracks to _Grease, South Pacific_ and _West Side Story_ on vinyl, Chris, remember? I was in the _Pirates of Penzance_ in high school with the rest of the musical theater dorks. I love to sing."

"Frederic?" Chris asks with amusement.

"Major General Stanley," Zach says, fingers tracing the shapes of the banjo's inlayed neck. "I had it in my head that it was something I'd do, once upon a time. That was right before my accident."

Chris tries to imagine it, and it isn't difficult to think of Zach on stage, holding a spotlight, drawing every gaze. If he held half the eyes and interest of people then as he does now, he probably could have. Not just his looks either; it's his presence, Chris has noticed, that captivates people so easily.

"So," he changes tact. "'The Boxer'. It's a classic."

"It's a favorite," Zach says quietly.

"A big favorite?"

"Yeah," Zach sighs, turning his face slightly into the light breeze that drags at the hair across his forehead. "Call it the metaphor for my existence, pretty much. I have every decent version of it I can find: the original Simon & Garfunkel, Paul Simon live, Emmylou Harris, Bob Dylan," Zach smiles again softly, turning back with the sunlight filtering through the leaves on his face. "Now I have yours in my head."

Chris strums, tunelessly, to do something around the warmth in chest. The song had always struck a chord with him, with such poetic verse and timbre that inherently peaked his literary interest. But having heard the song from the radio of Dad's old Buick as a child and going through his whole life with the knowledge that this song was one of those timeless classics that everyone knows because its always just been there, he'd never thought about what it really meant until now.

  


Zach's birthday comes around. Joe holds a barbecue, which may have been planned as a small family thing before Zach insists on inviting his new LA friends. Or possibly Joe is just irritated that Chris has showed up at his door. He's been nothing but churlish toward him on every occasion since they'd first met, yet he seems perfectly amiable toward Zoe, as well as John and Kerri and their kids, who apologize profusely for not being able to find a sitter. He even does an impromptu photoshoot with their six-month-old baby daughter. A few of Joe's friends brought their kid as well, people Zach seems to know by proxy but has never met in person until today. Only Anton is stuck at the bookstore with JJ, which he protests by sending a mass text to them all saying _you guys suck_ repeated about twenty times.

The kids quickly befriend each other, and the baby is passed from person to person. She stares just as passively wide-eyed at Chris as she does Zach, both of them holding her with a certain nervousness of doing it right: _Is this okay? She's so cute! Wait, is she pooping? Oh god, here, someone take her_. But with Zoe, she brightens like a light and giggles wetly, tiny fists waving in the air.

"Im'n'a steal her," she tells John, "People can think I adopted a little Asian baby and what a generous person I am."

"You and the rest of SoCal, Zoe," John says, as the boys run by shrieking, "I'll remember that when I need a babysitter. By the way, we have this birthday party for a friend to go to, and can't find anyone…"

"Oh shit no, I'll give her back before she can walk. They're only fun before they can run away and say 'no'," Zoe laughs, and John rescues his daughter from Zoe's clutches. 

Conversations ebb and flow as chips with salsa and dip, stuffed mushrooms, and veggie dippers are readily consumed, cold beers cracked and a bottle of wine opened. Chris finds himself wandering, having spotted one candid photograph of Zach with his family when he was a boy, and goes covertly searching for more. It seems that Joe has used him as a photography subject often, both before his accident and after.

Zach's presence appears at his shoulder, "What are you up to?"

"Looking at a picture of you," Chris smiles softly up at the framed photo.

"Describe it to me."

"You're sitting on a park bench, on the left side of it, with your shoes on the seat and your ass on the back, and your cane in your hands. It's a different one than you have now," he says, a little perplexed. This cane is still the same white with a red tip, but thicker and solid, with a hooked handle.

"My Buster Keaton cane?" Zach laughs, putting his chin on Chris' shoulder. "That was when my ankles were still bad."

Chris turns minutely to look at his face, so close their cheeks brush. He adds quietly, "You look pretty young." In the photo, Zach is even more lanky than he is now, all elbows and long legs, his face slender and jaw soft, with a short plain hairstyle.

"I was," Zach sighs, a note of unhappiness in his voice. "Joe was always taking pictures of me then."

"He was eighteen in that one," Joe's voice butts in as he passes through the hallway, still eyeing Chris with some disdain. "I took your picture because you were still alive and I could."

"Joe…" Zach says softly, his tone sounding an awfully lot like an age-old argument that has never ended, but Joe stalks off.

Zach turns on a heel and leans against the wall beside the photograph, "He got into photography after Dad died. Trying to catch memories, is what he calls it."

Chris licks his lips and nods. "Sound like a good plan."

"Yeah," Zach retorts, but not harshly, "I suppose it's great. I wouldn't know."

Chris winces, knowing he's inadvertently struck a sore nerve. He turns and puts his back to the wall as well. "Well, I promise not to show you any teenage pictures of me. You'd be horrified anyway."

Zach snorts sardonically, "I promise not to beg for them."

He moves back towards the living room noise, fingers lightly tracing the wall. Chris tries to imagine how that gangly kid—who had to struggle through learning to walk the world all over again with two broken ankles and his most valuable sense gone—turned into this man, whose steps are mostly smooth and outlook mostly positive.

In the living room, Zach loudly declares, "It's my birthday! When do I get presents?" throwing everyone into motion.

"He was always this demanding," Joe tells the group as they gather in the living room, Zach perching on an armchair with his long legs crossed, "Going blind just turned him into an even bigger queen. 'Give me this! Go get me that! I want! I want!' It's amazing he does anything for himself."

"Whatever, I'm completely self-reliant," Zach scoffs, and then holds out his empty glass, "Go get me more wine," to peals of laughter.

Zoe's gift is a brightly colored scarf, which Zach pulls out of the gift bag and pulls through his fingers critically. 

"It's purple and black stripes," she informs him, "And warm, it's that angora blend you liked. You'll need it for wintertime."

"Right, wintertime in LA, when the temperature falls to a downright frigid 65 degrees," Zach laughs, "Trust a Caribbean girl to keep me warm."

"Damn right."

Joe's friends give him something nondescript and useless, though Zach is ever gracious about it. John goes for a gag gift of a pair of thick framed glasses with the lenses popped out. "So you can complete your hipster look."

"What you don't know is that he already had some of those from the third grade on," Joe tells them, and threatens to bring out family albums until Zach counter-threatens to tell a story about that one time in a gay bar, which shuts him up.

When Zach tears the wrapping off of Chris' gift, he pulls the two books out of it with a smile, parting one to feel the new pages. Neither of them are in braille.

"It's _Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_ , your favorite. And my favorite, Cormac McCarthy, _No Country for Old Men_ ," Chris tells him, watching his face.

"I never did get to read that one," Zach says, softly smiling.

"I know."

"Thank you, Chris."

Afterwards, Joe and Zach go downstairs to Joe's basement studio to skype with their mom back in Pittsburgh, while a minor hunger-drawn tantrum is dealt with from the kids in the kitchen, and Chris goes out with the other guys to poke critically at the coals in the backyard to determine whether or not that are ready for burgers and dogs.

When Zach comes back upstairs and out to the patio he looks reserved and a bit sad. "You okay?" Chris asks, wandering over to him.

"Yeah," Zach mutters, shaking his head. "Talking to Mom like that is just…"

"Yeah," Chris agrees, draping a hand over his shoulder. He's a little surprised when Zach turns in and makes it full-bodied embrace.

"It's just hard seeing family now," he says quietly over Chris' shoulder, and Chris understands that he means having family see him, people who knew him before and now treat him completely different. But he hugs back, because Zach is warm and solid and he doesn't mind that Zach is tactile, even when Joe comes out with a platter of grill-ready meat and glares daggers at him until he lets go.

He watches Zach through the dinner as burgers and brats are inhaled and the chatter moves from topic to topic. Zach's deprecating humor as he tells a story about getting lost in Manhattan and having his wallet lifted in Central Park are amusing even though the experiences must have been shitty at the time. It occurs to him that maybe it wasn't just the fact that Zach wanted to be self-sufficient that had him leaving home as soon as he was physically able. Maybe he was running away. Maybe the prison was mostly metaphorical and in his own head, but he had still been stuck in a place where he couldn't feel normal.

Finally Zach demands cake, as well as to count the number of candles that go on it ("to be sure you are shorting me on wish potency, ass—buttface" he tells Joe, belatedly remembering there are kids present) and someone straps a birthday hat to his head. He squinches his face up and them blows them out, people cheering and shouting "Rightrightright, there's one left! No, right!" 

He then demands to cut and serve it himself, which devolves into a messy frosting-covered affair, with everyone soon licking their fingers, eating and falling into diabetic comas on the patio furniture as the sun starts to go down.

The lazy conversation lulls when Kage totters up to Zach, and with no preamble, climbs into his lap.

"Hello," Zach greets quietly, his free hand rising just a little in attempt to brace the kid, "You smell like cake."

"Mama says you can't see," the boy says, sounding vaguely stuffy.

"Nope. Not a thing."

"Why not?"

Zach sets down his wine and shifts the boy a bit, "Cuz this one time? I broke my eyes."

Kage says nothing. Instead he goes up on his knees, and with the refreshing nescience of a four-year-old, puts his hands on Zach's cheeks and gets his own eyes to within a couple of inches of Zach's to examine them right up close. His tiny flat nose bumps into Zach's big cumbersome one, and Zach bites his lip against his smile, but stays still. The group around them has gone absolutely silent. Kerri starts to rise, embarrassed, but John grabs her arm to stop her.

"They don't look broken to me," Kage finally decides, and sits back down on his heels, though he still stares critically.

Zach inhales pensively, and says, "Sometimes you can't see when part of someone is broken."

Kage awkwardly climbs back down from Zach's long legs, scrubs at his nose with a fist and says matter-of-factly, "You should ask your dad to fix them. My dad fixed my truck."

The kid trots off to the grass for the toy truck, brings it back, and with startling insight, opens Zach's fingers and puts the truck in them. Zach's expression goes utterly and remarkably soft as he rolls the truck's wheels in his palm for a moment and hands it back. "Yeah. I should."

The din of the group in the aftermath is blanketed with the sticky sweet warmth of the moment and the firelight.

"Well, I need to find a man to impregnate me now, so I'm out," Zoe says, stretching and leaning over to kiss Zach's cheek and murmur something like, "Happy B-day, baby. Love you big," into Zach's ear.

"No one here is willing or able?" Chris gestures widely, mocking deep affront as she gracefully stands, "You don't love me big?"

Skirting the back of Chris' chair, she catches him in a headlock/hug and says, "Willing and able, I'm sure of, kitten. But sadly not up to the monumental task of the rest of the job. But take some notes from Daddy Cho over there. He's killing it."

"What happened to your grand adoption plan?" Cho calls after her as she waves, with his daughter now sleeping soundly, braced in the crooked knee of his lap. 

Chris sneaks back into the house on the premise of using the bathroom, weaving back through the kitchen to help himself to another plate of cake. He leans against the counter where he can see Zach's profile out the window, still chatting and smiling, but getting tired enough to shut his eyes some of the time.

He wonders about that little wave of sadness he'd seen earlier, and that unsolicited hug that he'd found himself captured in, and why he hadn't sought it from his brother after the fact. It's fine; Chris is a sensitive guy and he's known to be a hugger himself. But combined with Zach's little comment about not being able to see broken parts of people, it resonates in his head. He wonders if Zach had had relationships back in New York or Pittsburgh, if maybe he'd left more than just the cities behind, and for what reasons.

"Books," Joe suddenly appears in the kitchen door, having discovered him in the dim kitchen. His voice is snide, "You got him regular books."

Chris swallows his bite, swiping icing from his lips with his tongue and shrugs, "They're better than candles like your clueless friends gave him. Who gives a blind guy a fucking candle?"

"Who gives him books he can't read?" Joe raises his substantial eyebrows.

"One who intends to read to him," says Chris, as if it's obvious. It had been understood with no words between them, after all. Chris knows Zach likes these books and authors, knows he likes to have every version of favorites, and he knows that Zach likes to hear his voice, would probably like to hear him read rather than listening to a screen reader or the voice of a stranger. It's pretty basic earth logic, in his opinion.

But Joe just sneers, "One who doesn't know that he got sick of having storytime like an infant about two decades ago. What happened to thinking it's so cool that he's independent?"

"You know what?" Chris says, putting down his plate of cake and crossing his arms, "Who do you think orders him as many braille books as I can find despite the shitty selection? I think you just don't like that your brother hangs out with me so much. I think you don't like that you can't control everything he does anymore."

"Is that what you think?" Joe smirks incredulously, then his expression darkens, "You think I took a year off of college to come home when my kid brother was practically homebound and in constant pain because I wanted to _control_ him? While I tried to keep our mother from having a nervous breakdown because she'd already gone through this shit once with our dad? You think I moved out here and encouraged him to go off on his own, because I wanted to control his ass?" Joe steps up into his face. "You don't know anything about me, or my brother. "

"You don't know much about me either," Chris retorts, "You obviously don't know that when a friend of mine wants something that I know will make him happy, I'll bend over backwards to help him get it. And since I couldn't find either of the books he asked for in braille in every database my bookstore has access to, I'm willing to go the extra mile and give him my time to read them. 'Cause I'm just that kind of a guy."

Chris leaves the kitchen, heading back out to the patio to find Kerri and John are standing, exchanging handshakes and goodbyes with Joe's friends while the the baby sleeps and Kage whines tiredly, hanging from his mom's hand.

Zach lets out a wide yawn even as Chris squeezes his shoulder, "Are you tapping out, man? We can go, if you want."

"Yeah, I'm partied out," Zach says.

"You know you could stay here for the night, Zach," says Joe, watching from the doorway.

"No, it's okay," Zach replies to that, standing and stretching, the bottom of his shirt riding up. "Noah needs to go out and be fed, I can't just leave him alone overnight."

Chris jingles his car keys in his pocket, watching Joe's expression pinch as Zach gets hugs and happy birthdays from everyone before they leave. As they gather up all of his cards and presents, Zach holds the books and quietly asks, "Will you read me a chapter when we get home?"

"Sure," Chris grins, seeing Joe's expression go completely sour. Game, set, and match.


	4. Chapter 4

Chris arrives at Zach's to find him immersed in a business call, a bluetooth headset sticking out of one ear as he strides back to his desk chair and folds his ridiculous legs into it somehow.

"Mr. Epstein, I really can assure you, real English people do, in fact, use contractions when they speak. They even invented them." An exasperated pause, and Zach actually rolls his eyes and palms his face, "Yes, well, when Michael Caine or whoever arrives on set insisting he can and does speak conversationally in order to avoid sounding like a magnanimous prick, don't come crying to me. And please inform Mr. Allen that reinforcing ethnic stereotypes might work in satirical comedy, but not in a drama that's taking itself this freaking seriously."

Chris' eyes go wide, petting Noah while Zach wraps up the call and throws the bluetooth to the desk.

"Mr. Allen," Chris smirks at Zach's silent vitriol. And his headband, pushing some serious bedhead back from his face.

Zach unfolds his long legs from the chair, stretching and sighing, "Mr. Allen."

"Mr. Woody Allen."

"I can only assume, given the neuroses involved."

"You're editing a script for—"

"Please don't grovel, Christopher, it's unbecoming." He inhales, catching a scent, "Did you bring me coffee?"

Chris grins, nodding to the cup he'd set on the desk, "Ten o'clock." Zach grabs for it and coos at the first gulp.

"Doesn't Allen work out of New York?"

"Yeah," Zach rubbed his eyes. "You'd think they could've hired me when I lived out there. That asshole woke me up at like four AM."

"You expecting him to call back?" Chris asks, a little disheartened.

"Oh, he'll call back," Zach grumbles. "He'll call about my note on how police at Scotland Yard aren't actually all Scottish, and again about how insisting the nanny be Indian is insultingly stereotypical. He'll call back when I suggest Woody spend more than an hour of his precious time rewriting this crap, and he'll definitely call back when he gets to the part where I suggest they relocate the whole story back to the US and shoot in, I dunno, Toronto or wherever, and just pretend he's shooting in New York to keep costs down like everyone else. I'm tempted not to even answer anymore, just let that prick assistant of his sit and spin for awhile. Why?"

Chris laughs at this tirade and shrugs, "I was just thinking we could go somewhere we haven't been yet."

Zach grins, "Disneyland?"

"You wanna go?"

Looking shy, Zach tugs the headband off and stretches it in his fingers, "Nah."

"If you wanna go, we can go," Chris offers with a grin. "We can ride the teacups until somebody throws up."

Zach giggles, reaching for his coffee again. "Maybe someday."

"Yeah, should have gotten an earlier start for that anyway." Chris scrubs at his chin, thinking, "We can go smaller, hit the Venice boardwalk, the pier. You haven't been to the beach yet, have you?"

"Not here. I went to a beach, once," he replies, "I went to Coney Island. You have to when you go to New York, right? I'd been there all of three days, and Zoltar told me my destiny was elsewhere."

Laughing, Chris stands up, "Come on, you have to see the Pacific. It's a whole different ocean."

 

Once they pile into the car with Noah and drive to the coast, it turns out they have to search for a stretch of beach that allows dogs at all. Chris hadn't really realized how fussy this city was about that, having not had a dog since he was a kid. They finally find an area where the sand is perhaps less perfect and has more coastal outcroppings of barnacle encrusted rocks, but on the plus side it's also devoid of other beach-goers and quiet, which Zach prefers. They eat sandwiches they'd stopped to buy on the way, and Chris reads the last couple of chapters from the McCarthy book while Zach stretches out on the sand in his striped tank, shorts and sunglasses, with his sandals tucked off to the side.

"Do you think Yeats would have understood this?" Zach asks when he finishes. "The derivation from his work."

Chris closes the book, watching Noah push his nose into the sand after some beach critter. "Maybe. The poem is about how life is never ideal. I guess Llewelyn hopes for it, if he can outrun Chigurh with all the money. Bell's retiring, heading toward that supposed ideal, maybe only in the dreams he describes."

Rolling up into a sitting position, Zach shakes his head. "The movie made it hard to understand," he says.   


Chris nods, remembering Zach's frustration when they'd tried to watch it one night. There's only so much a film's dialogue and soundtrack can convey. "Yeats felt you only reach ideals in death. I dunno," he ponders, "I think ideals happen in moments. They happen, but they don't stay."

"Open to interpretation," Zach smiles.

"Of course."

"I think you're right."

He studies Zach's profile, then closes his own eyes for while, listening to the sounds of the waves and the birds, and farther behind them, the sounds of the people and traffic of LA. He can smell the saline on the wind, the vaguely sulfury, fishy smell of seaweed and other washed-up muck on the rocks. The sand is scratchy, sticking to the sweaty parts of his skin. He opens his eyes when he hears Zach stand, Noah's leash looped over one hand and his cane in the other, walking down until the water curls around his bare feet.

Chris leans back on his elbows in the warm sand, watching Zach stand against California horizon with the waves gently lapping at his ankles, face tipped up to absorb the sun and wind tugging through his hair. He hopes his friend is becoming a part of this place. A part of his own home.

It's a brief moment of peace and contentment, one of those fleeting ideals. And then everything goes to hell.

It all happens in seconds. A flock of gulls cruises low over the beach and then lands down near the pier, arriving with a racket that Zach turns to follow. So does Noah. In an instant, his ears and tail fly up, body going tense. He lets out a sharp, thrilled bark and is off, yanking Zach so hard he's barely able to keep his feet as he yelps his surprise, and then Chris sees the rocks in the inevitable path.

"Shit." He launches himself up off of the sand, but it's too late. Zach goes down hard over the uneven outcrop, the loop of the leash ripping off of his wrist, and Noah barrels down the beach, barking his head off.

"You okay?" Chris runs to him, "You're—Jesus Christ!" 

Zach's bleeding from multiple sources, long limbs splayed over the jagged, shell-covered rocks, swearing like a sailor and shouting Noah's name as the barking gets farther and farther away. Zach spits sand and muck from his mouth and yells, "Get Noah!"

Chris tries to help him up, but Zach shoves him roughly away, "Chris, _leave me_! Get Noah!"

"But you're—"

"GO GET MY DOG!" The ragged edge of panic in Zach's voice has Chris backing off, hesitating for a second before he pelts after the dog, who's jumping wildly, barreling through the surf and back, while the birds hover easily out of reach and divebomb him.

"Noah!" Chris calls, trying to remember anything from those old dog training shows he used to watch out of sheer boredom. How do you catch a runaway dog?

 _Don't chase it_ , his mind supplies the answer. He swoops down to grab a piece of driftwood from the sand, puts two fingers to his lips and lets out a piercing, high-pitched whistle. Noah spins at the noise and Chris tosses the stick high in the air, twirling like a flapping bird. Noah runs for it, tongue lolling out of his mouth, a flying thing he can finally catch as it falls to the ground, and Chris dives for the end of his leash. Noah wags so hard with pride at the stick in his mouth that his whole body wriggles, spitting it out to shake the sand and seawater off his coat, completely oblivious to the mayhem he's caused.

"Good boy," Chris huffs a laugh, trying to catch his breath, dusting wet sand from his knees as he climbs up, "You're an idiot, but you're a good boy."

"You realize dogs aren't allowed here, right?" the sudden voice brings his head up, finding a Beach Patrol ATV and it's ranger nearby. _Shit._

"No, no," he points down the beach. "We were… my friend is down there."

She merely nods, and points to the sign Noah had streaked right past, highlighting the beach rules, number three stating plainly, _No dogs allowed beyond this point_. "And yet, dogs can't be on _this_ part of the beach, and certainly not off-leash."

"Look, the dog got away from my friend, so I'm just gonna go back, okay?" Chris says, looking down at Noah, who's thinking about going for the gulls again. He can hear Zach calling for both of them behind him.

"Not without a ticket, you're not," the ranger says, pulling out her ticket book.

"Oh, come on!" Chris complains in disbelief, "Look, I'm taking my dog and going back to the designated area, okay?"

"Sir, are you refusing to comply?"

Chris flips her the finger over his shoulder and tugs Noah back the way he'd come, ignoring her shouts and jogging back to find Zach sitting up beside the rock that tripped him, long legs splayed in front of him as his fingers examine his wounds. His knees, forearms and palms are shredded, dirty and bleeding readily, and there's blood and sand smeared from his chin up the side of his cheek.

Noah immediately wriggles into Zach's arms. Chris watches his friend hug his dog, stained hands clutching his wet fur tightly while simultaneously chewing him out, though there's no malice behind his words at all, only complete relief. "You fucking asshole dog. Why'd you do that, huh? You scared the shit out me."

Chris' foot bumps Zach's sunglasses, half buried in the sand and broken as he kneels down with a palm on his shoulder. "Let me see how bad this is."

Zach grabs his wrist, hard, and now the anger comes out. "Why didn't you go after him?" he spits. "Fuck, Chris, why did you stop to help me?"

Chris twists gently loose of the hold, shaking his head as he tips Zach's chin up to see the cut trickling down his neck, eyebrows worrying together, "I didn't think about it. You're a mess, Zach."

"Tell me something I don't know," Zach tries to push his hair back from his face, realizing the palms of his hands are also bleeding with a painful groan. He turns an ear toward the commotion coming up the beach where two Beach Patrol ATV's are heading toward them, disturbing the birds and setting Noah bouncing again. "What is that? What's happening?"

"It's nothing," Chris mutters, "Fucking Rent-A-Cops. Stay here, I got it." He wraps Noah's leash tight around his own hand, squeezes Zach's shoulder again and strides up to confront the rangers.

"Hey, look, guys," Chris says as they approach, "This is a big misunderstanding."

"Sir, if you could just stand there, please," says the first one, warily. "Keep your hands where we can see them."

"Is that animal dangerous?" asks the other, hand on the mace at his belt. "Did you get bitten?"

"No, jesus," Chris makes a face, realizing he's got some of Zach's blood on his arm and hand. Noah's wriggling at his side, trying to pull back to Zach, "Does he even look dangerous?"

"Sir? Are you injured?" The other ranger is looking past him at Zach, "I think this guy's high on something," he says to his colleague, who's speaking into the walkie again.

Chris steps toward him, "Hey, he's not—"

"Please stay where you are," the first one says, saying something into the walkie about animal control.

"What the hell!" Chris exclaims, the other officer skirting widely around him and heading for Zach, who is now crawling around on all fours, hands searching the sand. "Hey, don't touch him!" Chris protests, taking a step toward the man. Sensing a threat, Noah abruptly lunges against his leash and barks loudly.

The officer jerks to a stop, hand at his mace again. "You need to calm down and control that dog, sir." Another patrol vehicle rolls up the beach, this one a Jeep with flashing lights, two more rangers now getting out of it to bear down on them.

"Okay, fuck all this," Chris says, spinning around with Noah yipping on his heels, ignoring the orders of the officers as he heads back to Zach, reaching down to pull him up on his feet.

"What's going on?" Zach asks quietly, eyes wide and with genuine fear in his voice now, "Where's my cane?"

Still ignoring the people coming at them, he scans the sand and finds the handle of Zach's cane sticking out between the sand and rocks and fishes it out. The red end of it is snapped, the cable inside the only thing keeping the pieces together.

Now four officers are starting to surround them, and Chris has about had it, body taut as a gun with the trigger half-cocked. He puts the cane into Zach's hand and wraps an arm tight around his shoulder to turn and face them. Variations of, "Sir, you need to stop and calm down," keep reverberating around them, and he bites down on his temper.

"No, _you_ need to stop and listen," he snaps. "You haven't given me even a second to explain what's happening here."

Finally seeing the cane and the bloody, shaken state of Zach, the officers finally stop shouting at them and drop their hands.

"My friend's dog just got excited by the birds, okay," Chris enunciates as slowly and calmly as he can, though he's so pissed off he's having a hard time not swearing every other word. "He's been on his leash the whole time, but he pulled my friend down over the rocks and got loose. It was an accident. I caught the dog, he didn't hurt anyone—except his owner, obviously. So if you need to give somebody a ticket, give it to me, and we'll be on our way. Please. I don't want any trouble. All I want is to help my friend."

Noah's been whimpering and yipping the whole time, having picked up on the tension, and he chooses this moment to sniff at the blood on Zach's knees and then put his paws up on his thigh and whimper as the animal control truck drives up and an officer gets out.

"Okay, this is all a misunderstanding," the first ranger finally agrees. "Sir, we'll call you an ambulance."

"I don't need an ambulance," Zach says swiftly. "I'm not badly hurt."

"You don't need that either," Chris points to the animal control officer coming up with a catch-pole in hand, eyeing Noah warily. "You're not taking the dog."

"What?" Zach almost squeaks in panic, his breath going shallow as his fingers bury in Noah's coat, holding him tightly against his front. "Oh my god, no, please don't take my dog!"

Chris pushes close to Zach's ear to whisper, "I'm not gonna let them, Zach. I swear." His free hand is squeezing the leash so tightly the leather creaks in his palm. Noah's still up on his hind legs, clutched in Zach's arms and whining softly as Zach's fear amplifies his own.

One of the other officers heads off animal control, and the first ranger looks pitying, addressing Zach, "Okay, alright, let's all just calm down. Sir, I'd really like to get you to a lifeguard station to have a medic clean you up. If you would go with this officer, he'll drive you there, and your friend and I will stay here and have a talk."

"Oh, no way," Chris retorts sharply, stepping in front of Zach immediately, blocking the third ranger's approach, "You want to ticket me, then ticket me. He's not going anywhere with you."

"Chris, stop, you're just making it worse," Zach gasps behind him, though his fingers are now clutching tightly in Chris' t-shirt.

"Fucked if I care, man," Chris takes that hand, winds his fingers with Zach's, staring the woman down. "Give me a ticket for mouthing off or having a loose dog or whatever, that's fine, but I am _not_ leaving my friend alone with anyone."

In the end, Chris is stunned that he gets his way, squatting in the the sand with Noah just outside a lifeguard's shack, watching through the door while they patch Zach up inside. The ranger who originally stopped him on the beach eventually comes up to him, holding her ticket book.

"I really should hit you with a dog-at-large ticket," she tells him, "I could even have you arrested on disorderly conduct and failing to comply for that attitude of yours."

Chris keeps his mouth shut and nods, his eyes staying on Zach. He's never been arrested before and he doesn't want to start now that his temper has had some time to cool off.

"But I'm just going to give you a warning this time," she continues, "And tell you to help your friend train his dog. Don't let it happen again."

Chris swallows, flooding with relief. He nods, "Thank you. It won't."

She looks into the shack where Zach is sitting on a bench having his palms wrapped up and looking extremely pouty about it. "Make sure he gets home safe. And _you_ hold on to the dog this time."

Laughing, Chris roughs up Noah's wet, hairy face as she walks away.

When Zach slides off the bench as the medic leads him out, Noah jumps at him immediately. "Stop it, you jerk. This is all your fault, you'd better be sorry," Zach grumbles, though he makes no move to push the dog away.

Chris chuckles, wincing all the bandages. "Jesus, Zach."

"I feel like a fucking mummy. And my cane's broken," he whines. "Can you take me home?"

"No, I thought I'd just leave you here," Chris jokes, looping an arm around his shoulder. "Come on."

They pile into Chris' car, the damp and dirty dog tucked into the footwell between Zach's knees, though he keeps trying to climb into his lap.

"You shouldn't have done that," Zach says as Chris drives, leaning back against the seat with his eyes closed. "Did she give you a big ticket? I'll pay it."

"She didn't," Chris says, "She could have, but I think she thought you were cute, so…"

"Right, it wasn't you that was cute, just me," Zach shoots back with half a grin. "Told you I get away with stuff."

"I was a prick, I would have deserved it." Chris shakes his head, watching the traffic, rubbing a hand over his chin with incredulity, "They thought I was some kind of... menace to society."

Zach sighs heavily, reaching a hand over the console until his fingers bump Chris' thigh. Chris lowers a hand to it, holding it there, mindful of the way his palm is bandaged.

"You were shaking. When you… when they were all around us, and you were telling them off," Zach muses, "I've never heard you sound like that before."

"Yeah, well, I was pissed. It was so stupid," Chris laughs. He was also really fucking scared, but he isn't going to admit to that.

Zach spreads his fingers so Chris' can fall between them. "Next time Noah runs off, leave me and get him first, okay?"

Chris glances to their entwined hands on his leg, Zach's face and then back to the road. "There won't be a next time, buddy. It won't happen again."

Noah props his wet chin on Zach's knee. "Damned dog."

 

Once back at the apartment, Zach is sullen and irritable, shoulders drooping as he examines the whole length of the broken cane and then leaves it in its usual place on the table by the door.

"What will you do without that?" Chris asks.

"I have another one, I just don't like it as much," Zach says, "It's an inch and a half too short. Messes my stride up."

He wanders into the kitchen, scratching at the edges of the bandages up his arms and sighs heavily. "Fuck. I feel so gross," he complains. "That guy said I can't take these off for a day, I can't shower."

Hanging up Noah's leash, Chris watches him, wary of his mood. Zach reaches up to his hair, finding it blood-crusted and gritty with a moue of complete disgust. Turning to the sink, he feels for the faucet and ducks his head under it as he turns it on. But when he reaches up to scrub the crud out of his hair, he remembers again that his hands are bandaged and growls in exasperation.

Chris shifts on his feet, eyes darting between the door, the damp and grimy dog, and Zach. He shouldn't intervene. There's nothing Zach hates more than being pitied and nursemaided.

 _Fuck it._ "Here. Just…" he mutters, coming up beside him. He pauses to adjust the water temperature and tugs the sprayer head out, pushing the faucet out of the way. Leaning over, his hip nudges into Zach's side as he soaks his hair, rust-colored water streaming off the longer part, and he has to get in with his fingers to work the sand out. Zach, for his part, stays bent over the sink and lets him pull his fingers through the dark silky strands, pushing across his scalp to get rid of all the grit.

"Okay," he murmurs after a minute, squeezing the water out and tugging the dish towel off the oven door, which isn't really big or absorbent enough to do the job. He gives a soft chuckle, "Hang on, I'll get you a real one."

He hurries to the bathroom, grabbing the bath towel he finds there, trying to ignore the heat from Zach's body still radiating under the skin of his hip. Zach meets him halfway back down the hall and accepts the towel to scrub at his head, droplets running down his face and neck.

Chris follows him to the bedroom, hanging back in the doorway as Zach carefully pulls his tank off with a wince, pushing his shorts down carefully over the bandages on his legs, tossing both in the hamper and searching a drawer for a clean t-shirt. There are scrapes up the front of his stomach that the medic didn't see; not bleeding, but red and angry, turning out bruises readily on his pale skin.

He looks away. Not that he hasn't seen most of this plenty of times at the gym, in the pool or jogging shirtless on a hot day, but something about Zach being naked down to his briefs in the intimacy of own house makes it different.

He looks down to his own shirt, studying the smear of Zach's blood dried on the side of it until Zach has pulled the clean clothes on. He looks exhausted. Chris suddenly remembers how early a morning he had, and feels like a douche for making him hang out in the first place. "Maybe you should sleep or something. You look like shit."

"Well gee, you look pretty too," Zach sneers, but sits on the edge of his bed, folding his long, bandaged legs up onto the bedspread, his body pulled down like gravity is stronger than ever. Chris looks him over, feeling a funny pang in his gut and realizes he should leave now.

"Thanks," Zach says, half muffled by his pillow, as Chris reaches the bedroom door. "For... you know."

Chris doesn't know. _Thanks for taking you to the beach or getting you hurt or catching your dog or almost getting arrested or washing your hair?_ "No problem," he says, feeling the tightness in his stomach go tighter. "I'm'n'a just…"

"Mmm."

  


_Zach is looking at Chris._

_He's looking at Chris, and his gaze is cavernous, tropically warm combined with his smile, sun-glow highlighting the faintest of freckles on his cheeks and the dark coffee strands of his hair. He looks like this here in the golden summer, in the perpetual California sun, but they are not outside._

_Chris is lying in softness, the surroundings bright white clouds, clean sheets and downy blankets, with a solid, warm weight against him, across him. Zach's face is hovering, those firebrand eyes blazing above him as his fingers touch Chris' hair, stroking down his cheek. "Chris," he whispers, his bright smile framing the name. He says it again and again above him, like a mantra. "Chris. Chris, are you awake?"_

"Chris?"

He jolts back to reality, and it is dark. Night has fallen, and the only light comes in from the streetlights through the living room window of Zach's apartment. There's a weight on his chest, and he reaches a hand to it to feel the familiar texture of Noah's fur. And Zach's fingers lightly brush his cheek again. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," he rumbles, hitching up on an elbow, making Noah lick his face and then jump down so he can sit the rest of the way up. "Yeah." He can barely make out Zach's face in the dark, kneeling on the floor beside the sofa.

"Why does my dog smell weird?" Zach asks, as the dog wiggles around him.

"What?" Chris laughs, "Oh. I, uh, I washed him. I took him to that launder-mutt place down the street."

"You did?" Zach asks, somewhat incredulous.

Chris prods at his eyes, contacts feeling sticky, and stands up to find and flip on the light switch. Zach, of course, has no need to turn them on. "Yeah. He was dirty. All full of sand and… well, he had blood on him, so. I didn't want him to get it everywhere."

"He didn't get hurt too, did he?" Zach's voice hitches.

"No, no," he amends quickly. "It was from you."

Zach pushes up from the floor and folds himself into the corner of the sofa, fingers poking at the gauze on his palms. One has already started to come unraveled, and he gently tugs it the rest of the way off. 

Chris comes back to the sofa and sits. "You feel okay?"

Shrugging, Zach strokes his fingertips lightly over the tender scabbing heel of his hand. "Just sore."

It's probably a lie. Chris can still see it in his head, how hard Zach crashed into the jagged rocks, still hear his shout of pain. Scooting closer, he murmurs hesitantly, "Can I see?" Zach turns his palm up, unsure of what he wants to see, until Chris tilts Zach's chin where the bandage is falling off already. He brushes at it, and Zach's adams apple bobs as he reaches up himself to pull it the rest of the way off with a light wince. The cut there is scabbed over, angrily marring Zach's stubbly jaw.

"You're gonna have to stop shaving while this heals," Chris says, and grins, "Grow a goatee."

Zach pouts, "I'll look awful. Will it scar?"

"I doubt it," he says, then realizes he's still holding Zach's face, brushing his thumb around the cut, and lets go. He's not sure why he didn't just go home after he'd brought the freshly laundered dog back. He's not sure why he sat and watched Zach sleep for a few minutes before he'd noiselessly shut the door to keep the dog from bothering him and flung himself on Zach's couch. He's not sure of much at all right now.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"I dunno. Where'd I leave my phone?"

Chris glances around, finding the phone in its usual place on the desk, where Zach had left it before they'd even gone out, bringing it back to him. "8:30," he says. Zach's fingers move over the surface and then the phone's robot voice informs him: _You have... fourteen messages... from… Joel Epstein._

Zach groans irritably. "Prick."

Chris smirks as Zach tosses the phone to the coffee table. He should probably leave. His stomach growls and Zach hears it, arching an eyebrow with a grin.

"You wanna order a pizza?"


	5. Chapter 5

Zach had called in the morning asking if Chris was free around noon. Considering they spent substantial chunks of their free time together, or at least they had until a week or so ago, he'd sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. That hesitance has a guilty pang hovering in Chris' gut. 

When Zach had presented him with a key to his place the day after they'd gone to the beach—"Don't tell my brother, he'll have a hissy," he'd said—Chris didn't refuse it, but he was definitely feeling like maybe he should rein it back a bit. Not that they weren't the kind of friends/bros/buddies that weren't close enough to have spare keys to each other's apartments, but something about the exchange rubbed out a check mark on another weird sort of boundary Chris wasn't too sure about. 

And not spending time with Zach was weird. Chris had gone to the gym by himself and felt strange, running on the elliptical with some beefy, nasal-breathing dude on the next machine over, and it had thrown him off his game. He'd taken his books and laptop back to the coffee shop, drank three double espresso lattes over the course of three hours until he was practically vibrating, and hadn't gotten a damn thing done.

Glancing at his watch, he figures ten minutes early isn't such a big deal, and heads out the door and across the street. He thumps his usual rhythm on Zach's apartment door before using the key to open it, but freezes up completely upon the scene before him.

Zach is laid out on his stomach on a long table in his living room, covered with nothing but a towel over his ass, and getting rubbed down by some guy. Some guy who is young, fit and pretty attractive.

"Chris, you're early," Zach turns his head in his direction and huffs, a vague groan in his voice as the guy presses the heel of his palm down to grind out a knot just under the edge the towel. Just a little _low_ under the edge of the towel. "Sorry, I'm almost done."

"Uh. I can come back," Chris answers dubiously, but the guy with the hands only grins.

"Nah, man, it's cool, stay."

He looks like a fucking surfer. One of those extra tan and long-haired, perpetually happy vegan rainbow child gen-Yers for which life is just groovy, dude. He can almost smell the patchouli, except there's something subtly off about the schtick the guy is emulating. 

Chris swallows and shuts the door behind him, getting down on the floor to roughhouse with Noah, putting his back to the end of Zach's massage. When the guy finally pronounces him done, Zach sits up, pulling the towel around his hips as he chatters with the guy and they discuss another appointment, then digs through his wallet to hand over a credit card, which the guy swipes with one of those phone reader things. Chris can barely contain his sneer at this guy, with his "Save the whales" t-shirt and all-natural hemp burlap bag filled with shiny gadgets and expensive lotion bottles.

He also has a hard time not cataloguing the pale tone of Zach's skin in comparison, the juxtaposition of it with his dark, soft-looking body hair. The sweep of it down his wrists and legs he's familiar with (though it's still patchy where the injuries had scraped it off), but there is also the thick shock of it across his chest, and going down the center of his tummy and under the plush terrycloth.

"I'm just gonna get dressed, okay?" Zach says to Chris, bidding the neo-hippy surf-bum-masseur—sorry, rainbow people massage therapist—goodbye.

"Yeah," he nods to Zach, surreptitiously glancing at his back as he headed to his bedroom, leaving him alone with this detestable weirdo. The guy wipes down the table with a wet wipe (disposable! From a dickwad with a bag that implored in big green letters: "Please recycle!"), while Chris sizes him up.

"Ferguson," he introduces himself, smiling wide with white bleached, Hollywood teeth, and holds out an over-friendly hand to him. Chris squeezes it harder than necessary. The guy's palm is hot. _From Zach's skin_ , his mind so helpfully supplies.

"Ooh, you have strong hands," he observes silkily, "That's a good thing in this line of work, if you're looking for a new career path."

Chris tongues the side of his lip and grits his back teeth, "I have more cerebral aspirations." He really can't help but be a dick at this tofu nutsack. "Do you have a first name?"

The guy only grins wider, "Ferguson is my first name." He roves his eyes down Chris' body and back up, squeezing his shoulder uninvited. "You seem a bit tense, too," the guy decides, reaching into his back pocket for a business card. It just says _Ferguson_ across it in big wavy letters, no last name, above a tiny printed title claiming him to be licensed and certified with a phone number. "Call me if you want to feel truly free, whatever your aspirations might be," he laughs, and turns back to fold up the table. Carrying it easily, he grins again, saluting Chris and heading out the door. To a fucking Lexus parked on the curb.

Noah follows him to the door, sniffing at the crack and then glances back at Chris at the window. "What a douchebag." Chris says to the dog, shaking his head. "Right, buddy?" Noah wags and trots back, jumping up on him. "Good boy," he grins, scrubbing at his hairy face.

Zach returns within a few minutes, now wearing a t-shirt and jeans. His hair is still damp and floppy from an earlier shower. "So um. I know this is really short notice, but I have to fly back to New York tonight. For the Woody Allen thing."

"Really?" Chris brightens. "That's awesome." 

"Yeah," Zach pulls his fingers through the strands of his hair. "They want me to meet with some people and discuss script stuff and then go to some dinner event thing, I guess. But, um. I need someone to watch the kids, and Joe's out of town again."

"Aw man, you know I'll watch the boys for you, no problem," Chris says immediately.

"Really?" Zach's worried expression breaks to happiness, "Oh thank god. I was so afraid I'd have to find a last minute kennel or something, and I'd kill myself before I'd do that to them."

"No way," Chris ruffles up Noah's face, then steps forward to thump Zach's shoulder with the back of his wrist, the first part of a bro handshake they'd worked out. "You know I'd watch them. Anytime, man." They slap palms, grab and squeeze for a sec, and then end on a fistbump and a hug. Zach smells of citrus shampoo and fresh laundry. And something else, something vaguely herbal. Something fucking Ferguson probably rubbed on him.

"Awesome, thank you so much," Zach says as he pulls back. "The other thing is that I need some new suits. Like yesterday."

"You wanna go shopping?" Chris chuckles, raising an eyebrow, "Isn't Zoe your girl for that?"

Zach laughs, shaking his head. "Usually, but for this I want a guy's opinion. Plus, I gotta find a place that will fit and tailor a suit in the same day, and I don't think Zoe knows any places like that."

"Right, because I'm the go-to guy for suit-wearing," Chris jokes, but he does have his connections and is already on his phone looking up the place he remembers. "A guy like you doesn't have a suit?"

Zach winces, heading back into his kitchen to pull out a carton of juice and a glass, "I do, but I haven't needed to wear one in forever, and it's so 2007. Working from home made me lazy." He scoffs as Chris keeps laughing at him. "I can't show up to a meeting in Manhattan wearing a baggy three-button jacket, Chris. It would be a fucking nightmare."

"The blind fashionista," Chris laughs, "I bet you want me to tell you how you look in all the latest styles."

"You know it," Zach grins flirtily, "And don't lie to me. Just cause I can't see, doesn't mean I'm not up with the trends. And unfortunately we have to find something decent and have it tailored in like the next few hours, because my flight is at 11:30."

"I suppose you want a ride to the airport too," Chris teases, watching Zach pour the glass with a finger over the rim so he knows when to stop.

"Well, it's a red-eye, I was gonna get a cab…"

Chris chuckles, putting on his British brogue, "Your personal chauffeur service is only too happy to serve you, milord."

Zach rolls his eyes, finishing his glass and rinsing it. "Whatever, Jeeves, let's go."

They brave the traffic, rolling up to a curb in the shopping district and paying a parking meter a few blocks from the suit and in-house tailoring place a friend had hooked Chris up with a year or two ago when he stepped in as a last minute groomsmen at a wedding. 

Zach takes his arm and walks casually beside him, cane lightly held in front. The cant of his shoulders is loose, more relaxed, his steps less hesitant since Chris last saw him. Most of the tension that had been there since the beach incident seems to be gone now. Apparently Ferguson has something going for him.

"So, how long have you been seeing that guy?" Chris asks, keeping his tone light and teasing. "The massage guy."

"Ferguson?" Zach turns his head as they walk. "A few weeks, maybe. Zoe gave me his number a couple of months ago. I guess he's a fixture at the dance studio."

Chris clenches his back teeth. "Do you get massages that often?"

"Not always," Zach answers, "But my neck hasn't been right for awhile. Well, it hasn't been right since the accident, but I think that fall tweaked it or something."

Chris is silent, guilt still roiling in his stomach about that. It hadn't really been his fault, he keeps telling himself that, but he still feels responsible. The idea that Zach has ongoing issues that it aggravated just makes it worse.

"He's so good, though, I don't hurt for days after he comes," Zach says warmly.

Chris gnaws the inside of his cheek so hard it bleeds, silent until he turns them into the suit shop. The fuck kind of a name is Ferguson, anyway?

They spend a few of hours with Zach getting measured, and then trying on several suits, the salesman describing cuts and fabrics in such detail that Zach seems to understand more than Chris does. Chris watches him come out of the dressing room in each one, and tries to be as honest as possible when Zach asks his opinions on the fit and color, and _seriously Chris, do I look like a Wall Street lackey or a fashion district reject? Be honest._

It's not hard, frankly. He's had to do this with ex-girlfriends, and there's definitely a code about not being honest even when a girl asks for it. Except Zoe. Chris can be honest when shopping with Zoe because she's refreshingly blunt and scathing right back.

But Zach looks pretty damn good in all of them. At the end he goes for a dove grey casual business number and a dark, subtly textured three-piece for the dinner, one that hugs his shoulders and legs in a way Chris is certain he couldn't pull off himself if he tried, but it makes Zach look sharp as a razor. The tailor makes a face at the time frame, and insists on having until their 8PM closing time to finish. It'll be a tight schedule, but it gives them time for Zach to buy a few other essentials and then duck into a little Mediterranean place for falafel before they head home to finish packing.

"So, Harold gets a can in the morning, and kibble at night, but Noah gets a can and kibble in the morning, and two of the raw patties at night, okay? And don't give them too many treats or they'll get fat," Zach tells him, looking fretful. "And uh. You can stay here, if you want. I changed the sheets on the bed and you can eat whatever's in the fridge. Dammit, I should have typed all this up."

"Zach, chill, I got it," Chris laughs as Zach flits around his place like a hummingbird, demanding that Chris tell him everything that's in his suitcase and his work bag again in case he's forgotten something.

"I should have bought more underwear. I knew I forgot something when we were out."

"You're going to New York, Zach, not Siberia. They have underwear in New York." Chris shakes his head gleefully. "Anyway, you have enough packed for more than a week, you'll be fine."

"Shut up, I like having a selection," Zach grips at his hair. "God, I hate traveling. What time is it?"

Chris looks at his watch, "7:30. We should head out."

It takes another ten minutes to coax Harold out from under the bed so Zach can squeeze him goodbye and rough up Noah, who's looking distraught at the suitcases by the door until Chris ushers him purposefully out the door and into the car.

They swing back to the suit shop, and spend another thirty minutes hurriedly verifying the fit (Chris insists they look perfect, because they do), and then get in the everlasting traffic to LAX, taking nearly another hour to make it there. Zach worries his lip the whole way about having forgotten to check-in online, and frets some more that he can't get a signal out on his phone in order to do so on the drive.

Chris parks and helps Zach with his bags into the terminal to the ticketing counter. Ordinarily when traveling, Chris would avoid having bags to check, though he rarely goes anywhere requiring suits and their cumbersome baggage. He would also normally use the self-ticketing kiosk, but those touch screens are obviously not going to do Zach any favors either. He points out how lucky it is that the airport isn't quite so busy for late night flights, but it doesn't elevate Zach's mood as they step up to a ticket agent. She verifies his reservation, checks his baggage and tells him to wait for the requested assistance.

Eventually an airline employee pushes up a wheelchair. Chris eyes it and then looks around. There's no one else even waiting behind them, and the realization dawns. 

"Wait, he doesn't need a wheelchair," he says to the bored looking man standing idly beside it, looking between the ticket agent and Zach, who vaguely rolls his eyes.

"No, I didn't ask for a wheelchair, just an escort," Zach tells her, "I want someone to take me to my gate. On foot."

"Sir, it's LAX policy that disabled persons are escorted through the airport via wheelchair."

"No, it isn't," he corrects, and while his voice sounds calm outwardly, Chris can hear a dangerous thread underlying his tone. "The TSA doesn't actually require me to ask for assistance at all. That's my right. I don't need a wheelchair. I just need someone's eyes and elbow so I can do this faster than normal."

"Sir, our airline insists on providing our disabled customers with the very best—"

"By treating him like an invalid? Come on," Chris interjects, "He can obviously walk. Just have this guy lead him to his gate. You know what, never mind, I'll do it."

"Chris—"

"Sir, you will not be allowed through security without a ticket or a gate pass."

"Really?" Chris says, "So parents with kids flying alone do it all the time, but I can't—"

"Sir, please calm down. I don't want to have to call someone," she tells him sternly. "If you'd like to apply for a gate pass, I can do that for you. It will take a few more minutes."

"No, just—"

"Chris, shut up," Zach growls like he means business, and that has Chris back down, staring at him as he turns back the woman, "Never mind, I don't need help. I'll get there by myself."

"Sir—"

"I will get to my gate on my own. I don't need any assistance. Thank you."

The desk agent sets her mouth in a thin line, eyes darting between them as she finishes printing his ticket, handing it over with a prim, "Have a good trip, sir."

Zach hitches up his backpack and asks her, "How do I get to security?"

"To your left and then right to the escalators."

He turns that direction, cane tapping against the wheelchair and then around it swiftly with Chris in tow, shooting the ticket agent a dirty look. Zach finds his way to the escalator, taking a second to orient himself and board it. Once the stair reaches its end, only vaguely tripping him up, he ignores Chris' attempts to get him to take his arm, pushing him off and stops to check the time on his phone. " _9:14PM_ ", the reader voice says aloud, and then a different voice from another app pipes up, " _Your flight boards in... 87... minutes._ " 

Chris takes a deep breath, glancing around the security area. The lights on this side of the long room are dimmed, given the hour, and the airport isn't too crowded. There's not much of a security line to contend with, although there is a very long maze of roped off paths meant to corral the cattle during high traffic hours. He's not sure if Zach can skirt that entirely.

He wants to help Zach get to his gate on time, and wonders how he'll do it once he makes his 4AM connection in Boston when he's dead tired. But he doesn't say it, because he knows Zach will do it the same way he does it anywhere else. The echo of Zach telling him to shut up in a tone he's never taken rings in his ears, and he can see the way a muscle in his cheek jumps as if his teeth are clamped hard enough to break. "Wait, are you mad at _me_?"

"No," Zach exhales quickly. Then he licks his lips and takes a step closer to amend, "Yes, a little. This happens every time I travel, okay? I'll have six more people ask me if I need help before I even get through security, and probably ten more after that. It's bad enough with them, I don't need you patronizing me too."

"I…" Chris drops his brow, confused, "When did I…?"

"That whole 'parents with kids', being my keeper bit? Yeah, Chris, that was patronizing. Definition of."

Chris grits his own teeth, heart falling to his toes. How could he be so inept? "Fuck," he hisses, kicking at a large potted plant and balling his fists. "I'm sorry, man. God, I'm an asshole."

"It's okay, just…" Zach lifts his shoulders. "I don't need you getting arrested on my behalf, you know? Especially by the TSA, they'll send you to a federal prison. That's way more hardcore than beach mayhem."

Chris snorts out a laugh at that, "Yeah, okay."

"Give me a hug, I have to go," Zach chews at his bottom lip, quietly adding, "Don't make me leave mad at you."

Chris does, wrapping his arms around the breadth of Zach's shoulders and hooking his chin over tightly. "It just sucks," he murmurs after a moment.

He feels Zach huff a laugh and nod into his neck. "Yeah, it does," he breathes warm there for a second before continuing, "I sat in a fucking wheelchair for six months, I'm never doing it again if I can help it."

Squeezing tighter, Chris inhales the clean, citrusy, earthy scent of his hair, then steps back, pushing his hands into his pockets. This is starting to surpass bro territory, no matter how handsy they are with each other.

"Have a good trip," he mutters, "Sleep on the flight."

"I'll try," Zach responds, "Take care of my babies. No wild parties."

"Noah's still grounded," Chris laughs, clapping his shoulder.

"Okay," Zach taps his cane against the escalator rail. "Tell me where to go from here."

Chris looks over and directs him as accurately as possible to the first security checkpoint he can see, but doesn't offer to lead him.

"See you soon," he calls when Zach is halfway there.

He watches as a security officer pulls him to a free table and helps him with his shoes and laptop. They make him send his cane through the machine and tug him a little brusquely up to the body scanner.

When Chris can't see him anymore, he swallows for a minute against the squirm in his chest and turns to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sort of ableism I've included in this chapter is sadly pretty commonplace. In trying _so hard_ to accommodate the Americans with Disabilities Act and cover their own asses against potential injury lawsuits at the same time, a lot of companies (not just airlines) overdo it on the helpfulness.


	6. Chapter 6

"Checkmate."

"Ah, shit," Chris knocks his king over. He'd known it was coming; no one beat Anton, not even Zach. Who isn't here this week to brighten an otherwise boring evening at work.

"You've got no strategy at all, Pine," Anton's smug face is in full effect as he clears the board. "You should read about defensive techniques. We have a whole section on chess."

"Right," Chris grumbles, extricating himself from the child-sized chair. "I'll do that next time I can't sleep, Cheesewhiz. Surefire way to be unconscious in ten seconds."

On his way back to the counter, he swings by the pet section where he knows Anton had shelved the new set of books, grabbing the one he'd ordered in specifically. At the counter he flips through to the chapter titled, "Squirrels and Other Monsters: Teaching Impulse Control" and starts reading.

The workday is crawling by, which seems to be the theme for the week. Zach has been gone for four days, and Chris has dutifully been petsitting. He's started taking Noah to the park daily, working out various training methods, scouring the databases for dog training books and even hitting the library to trying to figure out what works and what doesn't. Chris hasn't had a dog in years, so it's actually fun to discover how smart Noah can be if he can be made to focus his mind on something for ten seconds that isn't a small animal.

"Well, well. Look who's mopey and brooding yet again."

Chris looks up at John, coming in for the evening shift. "I'm not either," he counters. "I am ruminative. Retrospective. Percolating. Developing deep bodied flavor."

John lifts an eyebrow at him and the book, thumping his bag down behind the counter and clocks himself in, "Mopey."

"I'm teaching a dog to not give in to deep-seated carnal instinct, Cho, it requires deep thought."

John uncuffs the sleeves of his shirt and pushes them up before he crosses them, leaning back against the register. "Carnal instincts," His other eyebrow drops, completing his patented smarmface, "Interesting topic of study for you these days."

Chris chooses to ignore that, closing the book and gathering up his hoodie and notebooks. John doesn't let up with the face, moving out of the way of the computer so Chris can clock himself out and thump the counter gate open with his knee. He takes half a dozen steps back to the pet section, but then comes back to the counter with the book. "I'm gonna buy this."

John smirks, ringing it up and and taking the money Chris fishes out of multiple pockets.

Shaking his head, John hands the book back and asks, "Are you ever going to make it official, man?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Chris swiftly retorts, pulling his hood up and heading out the door. He decides to forgo coffee and strikes out west back home.

John knows. He's probably the only one here who does. Granted, they have a history that goes all the way back to college. It was pretty weird, really, when Chris had walked into Abrams Books looking for an application and found John The Cho behind the counter, practically eight years to the day since they'd last seen each other. 

But things are a lot different now. John's no longer the wild party guy-cum-academic genius he'd been in the house they'd shared with five other guys. By that point he'd settled down, had a baby, even had a real career job teaching English at a local high school; the evenings at the store are just diaper money hours. Chris is hoping once he finishes his certification that having John as a reference will drum up some cred to at least get his foot in the door as a substitute.

John knows, not only because he's an inherently perceptive guy, but they had been roommates during his first year at UC Berkeley, the defining year that had changed Chris' life pretty irrevocably.

He'd been a painfully shy kid, right up through high school. Not least because he was bookish and nerdy and had a pretty heavy case of myopia and inflammatory acne. He'd also been tiny for most of it, and spent grade school getting slammed so hard during games of Dodgeball and Red Rover that he'd cried, and was bullied more often than not as a pansy, a wuss, a baby. The word fag hadn't come into play until high school, when he'd developed an intense infatuation with a senior boy on the baseball team. To a point that he'd actually gone to the try outs, but then turned tail and ran with embarrassment when he'd seen the guy on the field and sprung a boner. The next year, once the guy had graduated and without a similar distraction, he'd tried out again and made the team. Having sprouted nearly a foot the year after that, the basketball team. Chris eventually discovered competing was good for him.

So when John had talked him into joining the Berkeley inter-college debate team as a freshman, he'd jumped at a chance to do something academic that he thought he could excel at. He'd been good, too.

Jason was better.

Jason from UCLA-SF had kicked his ass so hard in the first heat of the semester-long debate series, arguing that progress was better than stability so thoroughly that Chris had left the podium red-faced and hard as a damn rock. Jason had a way with words, a whip-smart sense of humor, political ambitions aimed sky high, and a killer smile. And was gayer than a box of fruit loops, having shot down all of Chris' points and flirted fearlessly with him in the same breath for twenty minutes in front of everybody.

When the teams went out for drinks afterwards, Chris had confronted him on it with a couple of whiskeys in him for courage, to which Jason easily played off and then played up, and then Chris had somehow found himself in the men's room of the bar getting the blowjob of his life.

It went on that way for the whole semester. Chris simultaneously got over his shyness, became a better speaker and discovered that yeah, okay, he was a probably little bit bi. Probably a lot bi. The thing with Jason had left infatuation behind and scorched a frantic, intense physical and emotional path through Chris' world.

John could have easily put an end to it the time he caught them in the anteroom of the auditorium. Or the time Jason had climbed the fucking tree to the room Chris and John shared. Cho was on the ass-end of his final year and the team captain, he could have brought it to the judging committee's attention, or told everyone else in their social circle about it, or done more than just chew Chris a new one for fraternizing with the enemy before he went downstairs to sleep on the couch. But he didn't. 

For all Chris knew of Jason now, he was probably writing speeches for the president. Jason hadn't wanted to keep in touch, and after the year ended, the phone number Chris had was disconnected, and Jason was gone, leaving nothing but smoldering ash in his wake.

Chris spent the next three years collecting his degree and the fractured pieces of his self-worth, dating girls who mostly bored the hell out of him intellectually, but helped to at least reassemble his idea of what a 'normal' relationship was supposed to be like. He slept around casually like any guy in his twenties. Once he'd finally outgrown the zits and gotten contacts, his track record improved considerably.

But not with guys. It just felt too fresh, too raw to expose to the air afterwards. He didn't want to feel those things for anyone anymore. It took a really specific kind of guy to catch his interest like that anyway, and those kind of guys were few and far between. Girls felt safer, slower. They weren't much less toxic, but they were less addicting.

There'd been longer term things. The thing with Olivia had been up and down and sideways, and they clashed as hard in arguments as they did in the bedroom. Beau was a free spirit that had clung to him like some gossamer spiderweb and then faded off into the wind when they were mutually done with each other. Dom… Chris is still trying to figure out how he'd pushed her away when he'd given her the space she'd said she wanted, and Zoe still hasn't explained it adequately. Their relationship had been a hot mess, and it still has him licking his wounds, but at least it's bearable. And mostly scabbed over.

Zach is… something else. He's a friend. Chris stuck him very decisively in the friend category when he showed up a mere month after the bust up with Dom, and that's a good place for him. They're good friends. Buddies. Friends like he is with the rest of the bookstore crew, of which Zach is now enough of a regular fixture to count. John, Zoe, Anton, JJ, Zach, Chris – The Abrams Books Misfits.

He unlocks Zach's door, but doesn't open it until he has a treat in his hand from the ziplock baggy in his hoodie pocket, making Noah sit and wait instead of lunging at him. It's a chore, since both Noah's penchant for excitability and his full bladder has him vibrating for the full minute Chris presses the issue before clipping the leash on and taking him for a spin around the park to work on the new things he'd read today. 

The evenings are lonely. He spends his time at Zach's place reading, doing coursework, listening to music, fucking around online. He goes home to shower and change his clothes, spends an hour or two flipping channels on his TV, picks up something to eat and then goes back across the street to sleep at Zach's. Somehow, despite the meager distance of a street between the apartment buildings, the quiet at Zach's place seems more amplified. The walls occasionally creak in the night. A faraway car horn blares. Someone in the apartment upstairs flushes a toilet. Sleep comes slowly.

 

Chris opens his eyes in the dark, woken by Noah letting out a plaintive yip in his sleep from the dog bed in the corner. The clock on his phone glows 1:23AM. He stretches with a groan and rolls over, pushing his face into the down pillow.

Zach's apartment smells like Zach. Chris has spent months trying to find that scent and differentiate it from any others in the air, the way Zach's discerning nose does with everyone and everything. Only now that he's not around that Chris can find it when he looks for it, that fresh, yet somehow dark smell, not the citrus scented shampoo or oaky aftershave he uses, but the earthy, musky smell of his skin, his body. The smell of a forest at dawn after a nighttime rain, when the sun trickles down to warm the wet earth; that's Zach's smell. The sheets may have been changed, but the mattress and the pillows underneath are still permeated with it. Chris is wrapped up with it, surrounded by it, in high thread count sheets and soft pillow-top because Zach is so much more nuanced with the textures with which he experiences his world. This is what it must be like, being with Zach in this bed. 

Chris is grinding against the sheets before he can stop himself. What would Zach be like in bed?

Not like Jason. Nothing like Jason. Jason was a wildfire, unrelenting and unstoppable, raging over everything in his path.

Zach is a slow burn. He probably fucks the same way he does everything else. Not cautiously, but with care, precise and exploratory, with warm roving hands and fingertips, pale skin with heat just under the surface. He'd be like bonfire, embers pulsing underneath the sand and holding their life for hours and hours, an aching sine wave that flares up at any little bit of dry tinder that blows past, his hair silken and fluttering with the rhythm, mouth hot and sweet like molten caramel—

Chris barely has the presence of mind to flip to his back, shove the sheets off and thump into the bathroom, gripping the towel rod behind the toilet as he fists himself to a jerky, grunting, knee-wobbling completion. He leans there, gasping shakily, sweat broken out across his shoulders, forehead braced on his wrist, still cupping himself and feeling mortified. Boundaries crossed, check marks erased, lines smeared into oblivion.

He wants Zach. It's probably time to stop denying this so fervently, given the streaks of jizz spattering the underside of Zach's toilet lid and clinging to his fingers.

He sucks in a lung-deep breath, straightening up in the too-bright, too-real fluorescent light (no idea how he managed to flip the switch in the middle of that). He grabs for a wad of toilet paper to clean up, tucks himself back in his shorts and washes his hands, avoiding his reflection in the mirror at all costs.

Noah hovers stiffly in the doorway, looking like he'd be ripped out of sleep himself, blinking up at Chris in tired confusion. Good thing dogs can't talk. Best secret keepers in the universe.

Stumbling back out, Chris takes one look at the rumpled bed and turns, groping his way to the living room in the dark to flop onto the sofa. He punches the patterned throw pillow and tugs down the afghan, curling into an uncomfortable, shameful sleep.

 

The next night he goes out to a bar and picks up a girl. She's not that interesting, a typist by day with big dreams of acting like 95% of the women in this town, but Chris doesn't give a fuck. Or he does, a fuck is exactly what he's after and nothing more, so he takes her home anyway. To his place, not Zach's; he's not that big of a douchebag. He hasn't gone on a rebound spree since the couple of weeks after Dom shut him out, so this is something he needs. But he's halfway into getting her clothes off when he realizes he's halfway invested in this at all, half of his brain certain this is a good idea to get his head right. The rest is just going, _what the fuck are you doing, man?_

In the end, his orgasm is sluggish and unsatisfying, but the girl (Jessie? Jenny?) seems none the wiser. He pays for her cab back home and takes a shower before he heads over to Zach's, greeted by an annoyed cat, an ecstatic dog, and that latent smell that has him harder than he'd managed to stay an hour earlier.

He doesn't sleep in Zach's bed again. 

He picks up Zach from the airport on Saturday morning, stopping at a diner nearby to get him fed before heading back to his apartment, where Noah enthusiastically gambols around them both. As Zach chatters to him about New York, hanging the suits in the closet and swinging his suitcase on the bed to start unpacking, Chris can barely look him in the eye.

Fortunately, Zach can't tell.


	7. Chapter 7

"So, instead of the long loose leash, you have this short one."

Zach frowns, "But then he doesn't have any freedom." His face reads petulant six-year-old denied candy as they stand with Noah in the park, while Chris explains the new dog walking techniques he's been working on.

"I know, but that's part of the reason he's dragging you around, he's got all the control here, not you," Chris says, and snickers as Zach pouts. "Come on, buddy, it's not like you don't love your dog just because you make him behave. You're his owner, you gotta wear the pants in this relationship."

"But I have to keep him on a tight leash, all strung up like some… gallows hangman," Zach mourns, "He'll hate me."

Chris snorts, "No, no, I'll show you."

Closing the distance, he hesitates momentarily before taking Zach's hand and looping the long line over his wrist, letting him close his fingers over it like he normally would. He watches Zach's face, wondering what's going on in his head, if anything there mirrors his own thoughts.

He can't avoid Zach. He tried that and it didn't even work. He had a week of Zach gone, and everyday of it was long stretches of boredom and frustration interspersed with points of the profound enlightenment of _oh hey, you're completely hot for your friend, just so you know_. Now that Zach is back, their daily routines just have indelible junctions, like ley lines or whatever, and Chris can't just yank it back and be that douche who washes his hands of it because his stream of thought took an abrupt change of course. Especially since Zach doesn't seem to notice that anything is different, and what's changed isn't even his fault. Chris isn't mad at Zach. That's part of the problem.

"You just stand still for a minute, and let Noah move around you." Instead of clipping the dog to the end of the long leash, though, he takes the clip end himself, wrapping it once around his hand, with Noah on the short lead in his other hand. 

He circles around Zach with Noah, letting the dog lead as he sniffs around. As they move far enough away that the radius of leather stretches taut between them, he can see Zach tighten his hand instinctively. Then he gets closer, coming nearly back to him, and the line is slack and trailing on the grass. Moving away again, he waits until he can see that Zach is losing interest and distracted by sounds across the park, and then gives the leash a good hard yank. Zach gasps, lurching forward a few steps before he gets his footing and pulls back with both hands.

"See?" Chris says, gathering up the long leash as he walks back to him. "That's what Noah does. It's hard for you to tell when he's going do that with this much slack, and he's far enough away that he's got a running start on you."

Zach follows his end of the leash between them to where it's clutched in Chris' hand, mouth quirking. "That was you, not Noah? You tricked me!" he laughs. "I heard his tags jingling, though."

"Because I have him with me," Chris grins. "Now watch, keep hold of this." He kneels down to Noah's level in front of Zach, keep some tension in the line.

Feeling the change of direction, Zach snorts and lifts an eyebrow as he angles his face down, "Kinky. Things to know about Christopher Pine."

"Shush, I'm making a point," Chris snickers, face reddening. 

The flirting. There's always been this lighthearted flirting between them. It's never meant anything. Or at least he didn't think it meant anything. He was pretending it didn't mean anything before, but now he's not sure if he should be responding to it at all. He probably shouldn't.

He clears his throat, maintaining the tension on the lead. This time when he gives the leash a hard yank, Zach anticipates it and braces. "See? You could tell what I was going to do, you could feel it in the leash."

Zach's grin goes a little wicked. "Good boy."

Chris gives a strangled laugh, getting up and giving Zach the loop of the short leash with Noah on the end. Standing slightly behind him, he puts one hand on Zach's shoulder, and the other over Zach's on the leash, controlling the tension in the lead. "Okay, that's Noah, for real this time. It doesn't have to be tight, you don't have to choke him or anything. Don't move for a minute, just feel him."

While Zach was gone, Chris stood here with Noah the same way, closing his eyes to the sunny world and just feeling the connection to another living thing through a short length of leather. He can't really pretend he hasn't shut his eyes and tried to do menial daily tasks since knowing Zach, tried to understand how he sees the world. Which is interesting, but Chris has the luxury of just opening his eyes when he's done with the game. Zach can't.

He swallows and glances down at the scant couple of inches between their bodies and moves back a bit.

He's aware of Zach in a completely different way now. Zach is not just the man with the whip-crack mind and dry personality, the guy who offers a fresh perspective on everything because he must, who makes Chris think in ways he never would have otherwise, and learn to appreciate things that he once took for granted. 

He's become intensely aware of Zach, corporeally. The way he moves—the confidence with which Zach skirts a table, the back of his hand running along the edge. The way his fingers examine an object, masculine and square with hair dusting each knuckle, but fingertips light, so delicate, tracing contours and textures. The pout of his mouth against a wineglass, lips stained berry red, tongue coming out to trace the fine edge. It's not even that Chris wasn't aware of Zach's body or his attraction to it before, but now that he's failing spectacularly at ignoring it, it's fucking hard to focus on other things while around him.

He sees the minute intensity with which Zach responds to any physical contact, even a casual hand of a stranger on his arm to get his attention. He stills, a breath taken, a blink, head turning to register more about who's entered his space. Other people react the same way of course, but somehow, it's far more intimate to see Zach react with every other sense but the one most people don't even think about. He's suddenly aware Zach can be touched, he feels, and he reacts perhaps in much more amplified ways.

Chris has already told him he doesn't mind the tactile nature of their friendship, and Zach has run with that. He can't ignore it now, the way Zach's hand lingers on his shoulder or his arm when they're out, the gentle warmth of his hand around his bicep, the brush of their fingers when Chris gives him something, the quickness of his hugs. That scent that has Chris closing his eyes and gritting his teeth when they're close. They're constantly close, just like they are now.

He exhales, yanking his brain back to what they're here to do. "This way, Noah's right here, he's close to you, and you can feel him all the time. You can feel him move. You can almost feel him breathing. You can feel when he's getting excited." 

"Like with you," Zach says. 

Chris looks up at Zach profile, mouth parted, eyes unfocused, concentrating, and feels his own heart thumping. But Zach turns his head toward him and rephrases, "With anyone, really. I can feel it when someone is leading me. Anticipate them."

"Yeah, exactly," Chris agrees, "You can anticipate his impulses." He darts his tongue over his lips and bumps Zach's arm with the treat bag, then steps back to separate them fully. "Then when he sees a squirrel or something and goes tense, you distract him with a treat instead. Try it."

They walk around the park that way, Zach and Noah getting used to the new method. When squirrels or birds dart out and Noah jumps, Zach is able to get him under control before he gets dragged, proving Chris' point. "See? It works and everybody's happy. And Noah gets a treat when he controls himself, so it's not like you're denying him something fun."

"I want a treat too," Zach grins, "I want ice cream. Let's go to that gelato place."

Chris isn't mad at Zach, he's mad at himself. He's angry he's let this happen; he thought he had a handle on it. He's lost the short leash he had on his own impulses. His desires are yanking his feet out from under him.

And it's not even that he's ashamed of being bi, it's not about that. He's a born-and-bred Cali boy who's been around plenty of lifestyles. If he hasn't told anyone about his own, it's because he hasn't swung that way in a decade, not because he cares what people think. He likes and hangs out with Zach, so that isn't the issue.

Or it is, in this case. He likes Zach. He genuinely likes him as a person, likes spending time with him, likes conversing with him, likes how well they gel intellectually. Zach is his friend. He's his best friend.

He isn't supposed to be fantasizing about licking salted caramel gelato off his best friend's bottom lip.

 

He goes out several nights in the next week, supposedly on the pull, but often he just aborts, does the chivalrous thing and gives the girl a ride home and a kiss goodnight. Even his number once, because the girl was cute and he figured he'd like her better when she was sober, but when she called and left a message on his voicemail, he didn't call back. He was too busy pausing on his side of the street looking across, at Zach giving Ferguson a hug beside the fucking Lexus parked on the curb and wanting to introduce his fist to those goddamn neon white teeth. Maybe key that hot custom paint job too. 

He's not sure what the whole deal is there, whether it's strictly professional or not, and the fact that he doesn't know pisses him right the hell off. There's just something so fishy about it, private house calls and happy endings running through his mind with green rage coiling in his guts.

He makes a point to hang out with people he's been neglecting lately, namely Zoe. She's always been his go-to for girl problems and feelings, and she's great for the whole loneliness element. But the thing is, she's become so close with Zach herself, that the bleed-over is something he didn't anticipate.

"Seriously though, you should come out dancing," Zoe is saying, "You haven't come out with me in ages. Chris the celibate is just weird."

"I am not celibate," he insists. Zoe throws him a doubtful look across the table. "I'm not! I went out last night, drove a girl home." He doesn't have to tell her he didn't close the deal that time either.

"Drove her home, alright. Chris, I know you," Zoe points at him with a fry. "I know all about the spree you went on after Dom, which was maybe justified because that's just how you guys deal, but after that? It's been months since you and me hit the clubs, and now you're going out all by yourself?" She stops and lights up, "Oh no way, are you going out with Zach?"

Chris chuckles, heart giving a brief flip over the inadvertent double entendre there, "No."

"He your new wingman?" she teases. "Oh, I bet that'd be a riot, the way he attracts attention. You know when he's out with me, the way people look at us? I had an old lady pinch my cheek and tell me what a wonderful person I was the other day."

Chris snorts, "What the hell, that never happens." Has it? He's never noticed. "No, we don't go out."

It's never occurred to him to bring Zach along to the bars, or to go to the sort of bar Zach might frequent and play wingman to him; those are places he's avoided on principle over the years because of his own issues. Outside of Zoe, he hasn't had a wingman himself in years, with many of his old friends getting married or moving away. He has no idea if Zach even goes out looking to get laid, or how he does, and he's not about to ask him now.

"Oh my god, I'm done," Zoe says, pushing her food away. "Let's go down to H&M. Do _not_ tell Alejandro I ate that, he'll kill me. He has to lift my ass in the next recital."

Chris laughs, tossing their trash and heading out with Zoe. It feels nice, being out with her again, even indulging in her need for a shopping tag-a-long. Once upon a time he used to pretend they were together, having a beautiful dancer on his arm making him feel like something special. He's never even cared what anyone thinks when he's out with Zach. 

"So you're out on the pull alone these days, eh?" she says, "That's serious."

"It's not serious. It's the farthest thing from serious," he mutters. "I'm trying to get my head back in it, I guess. I'm done being heartbroken."

"Aww. Be more adorable, sweetie, I'm not diabetic yet," she giggles. "Maybe you should take Zach. It'd be fun."

Chris licks his lips, pondering that. He wonders what Zoe knows about the Ferguson situation, considering she's the one who introduced them. "I don't think the places I go are his scene. Anyway, I'm sure he's been out, even in New York." He's not sure, in reality.

"He's been out here too, but he can't see who's hitting on him," she expands, "Don't tell me that doesn't worry you."

"I'm not his mom, geez," Chris grumbles, annoyed at how his guts clench at the thought of Zach going out on the pull without his knowledge. He's being ridiculous.

"No, but you're his best friend, that means your opinion counts for something," she says, "He talks about you like the sun shines out your ass."

Chris decides to take that with a grain of salt, however it makes his chest bloom with warmth.

"And it's sweet, you know, you help him more than anyone," she continues, "But you're sort of useless for relationship stuff, which is why I'm telling you. Maybe we can split the difference. I find the boy a boyfriend, you give the guy a once-over for me from a man's POV. Make sure that behind closed doors where I know you guys don't let a girl in, he's not someone I'll want to maim with a stiletto to the neck."

"Great," Chris shakes his head with a grin, "Zoe, you are officially his personal fag hag."

"Out and proud, baby," she cackles, "You can be his stag."

He laughs uncomfortably, "Come on, the guy can find his own tail."

"Anyone can get laid. He needs someone to love him right," she insists. "Don't smirk at me like that. Zach might be all brave on the outside, but he's a teddy bear in private. You guys don't talk about that stuff, do you?"

Chris huffs, "Not really." 

"Yeah well, he's lonely, and he's easily as sensitive as you about it. And I swear, anybody breaks his heart, I will end them so fast..."

"You'll have to give his brother a turn," he says. He worries his lip as he strides along with her, taking a deep breath. It's either deal with the train of thought she's currently driving, or derail it. "Zoe…" When she hums she's listening, he stumbles on, "You, uh. You know that sometimes I… I kinda… look at guys. Right?"

There's a slight hitch in her stride, but only for a moment, keeping her pace as a slow smile grows on her face. The thirty seconds or so it takes her to answer are horrifying. "I didn't want to say anything, but… I guess there were times when I wondered." Then she stops and turns to him outside the department store, her eyes going tender and soft as it all clicks into place. "Oh, Chris. Really?"

He scuffs his shoe on the sidewalk and looks away, feeling his cheeks flare up. "I don't even know."

She looks him over, glee playing on her face. "Yes, you do."

"I really don't," he implores, cutting an earnest look up to her for a second before they fall to the concrete again. "I mean I haven't. In forever. Since college, Zoe, and that wasn't even—" he tries to explain, scrubbing a nervous hand through his hair and feeling his heart thumping like a drum. "It's weird. It's something I thought was a… a fluke, back then. A phase. I don't know what to do about it now. I don't even know if I should do anything."

The excitement melts off Zoe's face for concern as he talks. "Hey, don't be so afraid."

"I'm not," he protests, but it's such a huge fucking lie, and she knows it.

"Hon, listen to me," she grips his arm, "I know he's your friend. I know you don't want to lose that. You don't have to do anything if you think it will jeopardize that."

Chris chews at his lip. That wasn't what he thought she'd focus on, but it's a far more valid point than having the third big gay freakout of his life. "Shit, I didn't even think of that."

"No, of course you didn't," she rolls her eyes, compassion leaving her face for swift condescension. "It's no different than when you want a woman, you know; you think with your little stupid brain instead of the smart one up here," she jabs him in the temple with two fingers and turns to pull the door to the store open. When she heads to a table full of girly accessories and starts to pick critically through them, he starts to think that's the end of it and lets go a big exhale.

He should know better with Zoe, flicking her lashes up at him over a fake alligator skin purse, a wicked light in her eyes, "So, no wonder I haven't been able to get you to come out. Spending every waking hour with sweet Zachary."

Chris rolls his eyes. Never mind he's made a point of not spending every waking hour with sweet Zachary, lately.

"Hey, don't worry, I get it. Smart, mysterious, funny as hell, and he's gorgeous," she grins, "If he wasn't gay, you know I'd hit that."

Laughing, Chris fusses with the clippy thing of a ladies coin purse to do something with his hands.

"He's so pretty, and he completely refuses to believe it. Just like you," she teases, "You'd be such a cute couple."

"Zoe, come on."

"Does he make you feel funny when he holds your hand? Don't think I haven't seen that happen." She gasps brightly, "Oh my god. Has he ever looked at your face? Like, with his hands? That'd be so hot."

Chris lets out an embittered groan and turns across the aisle to the men's section, poking at a diamond patterned tie, until Zoe comes up behind him and throws her arms around his waist, "N'aw, come on, I'm just playin', you know me."

She pivots gracefully on her heel and leans her butt up against the table, looking him over seriously. "You really do like him, don't you? Like, for real."

He doesn't speak, but his fucking face is on fire, giving everything away. Zoe can read any of his relationship situations like a book. She pulls the tie from his fingers and loops it over his head, framing his face with the ends of it in her hands. "Stop that, now. Doubting yourself," she tells him with deadly seriousness. "You know, I still stand by what I said months ago. Dom was out of her mind. You're too good a guy, Chris. Any girl would be lucky to get you." She grins, but it's sweet this time, "Maybe any guy too."

He snorts a laugh, but quickly sobers. He's not all that sure of how good guy he is after the last few weeks. "So, are you going to kill me with your shoe, or…?"

She giggles, going up on her toes to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, letting the tie slide around and off of him, "Ask me that after you've grown a set and gone after what you want. 'Cause you can bet I'm gonna hear all about it from the source."

"Great," he chuffs. He pauses to take her hand, "Look, I haven't even figured myself out yet, so... could you maybe just—"

"My lips are sealed," she promises, but frowns, "But you need to figure it out, for your own sake. You've been so quiet, lately. It worries me."

He kisses her knuckles old-fashioned style. Her eyes are hard and dark like mexican chocolate, so different from Zach's. "You know, I had a thing for you once."

"I know, baby, keep carrying that torch," she says off-hand, continuing farther into the store. "You haven't heard from her, have you? Dom?"

He shakes his head, following. He hasn't heard from Dom since the spring when she'd moved to Montréal or wherever the fuck it was.

"You haven't talked about her since March," she arches a sly brow at him, "Right when Zach walked into the bookstore, in fact. Damn, it all makes sense now."

"Shut up," he mutters against his teeth, cracking his face in a bashful grin.

She stops to hover at a shoe display, waving a four inch heel at him and laughing, "I swear, you guys. Thinking you all macho when all you are is a pair of kittens with so many feelings."

"Jesus H. Christ, Zoe."


	8. Chapter 8

When Chris stumbles out of bed to a knock on his door at seven AM thinking it's the UPS guy or something, he's slightly confused to find Zach on the other side of it.

"Hi!" Zach says brightly, and steps forward to catch him in a tight hug. Which wakes Chris up substantially, given he's not wearing much more than the shorts he slept in, and Zach's arms embracing his bare skin set off alarms and dispatch emergency crews to said shorts.

When he moves back, Zach holds up the paper bag still clutched in one hand that had thumped warmly against his back, "Here, take this." When Chris does, Zach stoops outside the door to pick up a cardboard holder with two coffee cups in it.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to carry one of these things and a bag of scones a block and a half and then up two flights of stairs?" he says, grinning widely. "I just want you to take a minute to appreciate that on my behalf."

"Duly appreciated, man," Chris laughs, taking both to his kitchen as Zach takes his arm to follow, fingers wrapped around his triceps and knuckles brushing the bare skin of his torso. As soon as Zach finds the back of a chair, he stutters, "I'm gonna just, uh, go get dressed, kay?" He scratches at his chest and changes his mind, "Actually, do you mind if I take a shower?"

"Nope," Zach sips his own coffee with a purr, his eyelids half-mast. "I'll just watch cartoons."

"Right."

"Hurry up, or I'll eat yours too. You know how I am about the lemon poppyseed ones."

Retreating to the bathroom, Chris can't help but beat one off as swiftly and silently as possible under the hot spray. He feels guilty about it as he hurries to scrub himself down and get dressed, worse when he comes back out to see Zach folded into a corner of his sofa, nursing his coffee in the patch of sunlight streaming in from the window. It highlights his skin with early morning gold, setting the contrast of his hair, eyebrows and the fan of his eyelashes into sharp relief. He licks his lips as he takes a sip from the steaming cup, sucking his top lip lightly over the bottom to catch a drop there. He's unbelievably beautiful.

Chris brings his own breakfast over to the sofa, devouring the scone and half his coffee too quickly, messily brushing the crumbs from his t-shirt as Zach points his face toward the episode of Phineas and Ferb on the television. The thing about watching TV with Zach is that neither of them end up watching it. Zach says aiming his face in the direction of the sound gives other people the impression he isn't bored (even if he is, sometimes). Chris mostly just ends up watching Zach.

"So, why did you take it upon yourself to bring me breakfast?"

"What, I can't return a favor? How many times have you gone to get coffee for me?" Zach teases, grinning playfully again as he turns back to face him. "Zoe told me it's your birthday."

"Aaaagh." Chris groans and laughs, scrubbing his face.

"Zoe also told me you'd do that," Zach giggles, sliding a hand across the couch cushion to find a part of him—his bare ankle under the cuff of his jeans—to give an affectionate shake and squeeze.

Chris doesn't really do birthdays. He's more than happy to go to someone else's party, buy them presents and eat cake and a make a big deal of them, but for himself, he'd rather just let the thing pass quietly.

Chalk it up to being the dorky, socially awkward kid. He didn't make friends easily back then, and after the time he'd invited most of his class to his eleventh birthday party (including that really cute girl, Becky, which took balls he didn't know he had) and not one person showed up, he'd sort of given up on the whole celebratory thing. Usually, he wakes up a year older, maybe takes the day off and goes to see a movie, fields the obligatory phone calls from his family, and pours himself a drink at the end of the night. It's no big deal.

"Don't tell me there's a surprise party," he cringes, "Or a big dramatic thing of any kind."

"Well, fuck, now I've got to go call everybody and tell them it's a no-go," Zach jokes easily. "No big party, I promise. But I am here to take you somewhere fun. Just us."

Chris laughs, feeling a swell in his chest. "Somewhere fun, huh? Where's that?"

"Well, Google Maps tells me it's about thirty minutes and as many miles southeast of here."

"Google Maps lies," Chris grins. "LA traffic dictates you add five minutes per mile to get anywhere. Add ten if you're taking me to Disneyland," he watches Zach tuck a bashful smile into his coffee at his guess. "By which you mean I'm taking you."

"Well, I really think it's better if you drive. I don't have a great track record behind the wheel," Zach deadpans. "Plus, I'm paying for your ticket, and your lunch, and probably dinner, so technically yeah, I'm taking you. No haggling."

Chris squirms at the happy nerves that puts in his belly. "We should probably go soon, then."

Zach pats his ankle again, his fingers warm and lingering. "Finish your coffee."

 

Once they park, take the tram in and Zach buys their passes from the very bubbly young girl at the ticket booth—Chris swears to Zach that they never age, so it must be that Disney employs the freshest teenage recruits as gatekeepers before they get jaded by the repetition of sitting in a tiny box all day—they go through the gates and enter Main Street. There is music and people everywhere, families in matching t-shirts, kids in princess costumes and mouse ears darting this way and that in excitement. It makes Chris feel like he did when he was that age, the first time his parents brought him here. It never gets old either.

In the middle of the street, Zach stops, a goofy smile on his face. Chris takes a step away, but Zach holds on tight. "Wait, just give me a sec," he says, "I remember what the castle looks like, the one from the logo. It's right in front of us, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Chris laughs, looking up at the blue turrets. It's somewhat less impressive now that he's an adult and has seen real castles in countries that actually have them, but it's still an icon of his childhood. He looks at the glee on Zach's face. "What do you want to do first?"

"Everything!" Zach grins excitedly. "Space Mountain!"

Chris laughs, takes Zach's hand and leads him in the right direction; he knows where everything is without the map. In the first four hours, they do most of Tomorrowland, ride the Teacups twice, and sit through the _It's a Small World_ ride—"Oh god, this really is horrifying," Zach moans, rubbing his ears, to which Chris answers, "Dude, you don't even know the half of it," laughing at the animatronic freakishness around them. 

They stop to eat lunch at Daisy's Diner, then work their way around to Frontierland, Splash Mountain and the Haunted Mansion. Chris is more than a little giggly at how much Zach jumps and clutches at him at every spooky noise. He might be turning thirty-three, but he feels about twelve, dropped off by his mom at the park with his best friend. Or seventeen, with his first girlfriend, which ended with heavy petting on the torn seats of his 1978 El Camino. He's been failing at avoiding similar fantasies with Zach, lately.

When they tumble back out into the sun, Chris squints back at him (he's pretty certain he lost his sunglasses somewhere near the flying Dumbo elephants, but he doesn't care enough to go back). "Oh shit, you're all pink."

"I feel pink. You had to go and mention it, didn't you?" Zach laughs, "I bet you are too."

"Fuck, I'm almost worse off than you," Chris rubs his own reddened arms. "So much for not rocking the farmer tan this year. Come on."

He finds a kiosk to buy a tube of sunscreen, and then locates a free table at a lunch area to sit and pass it back and forth, smearing exposed skin. The lotion makes Zach's arm and leg hair slick against his skin in heavy contrast, the way it is when he gets out of the pool at the gym. It shouldn't be as enticing as it is. 

Chris looks back at his face and laughs. "You have way too much on your face, dude."

"I know, it's all greasy now," Zach snorts, trying wipe some of it off on his already slick arms. 

"You're gonna get it in your eyes. Let me…" Chris says, thumbing a thick smear of it from his cheekbone away from his eye, and pushing it down into his cheek to rub it in. Zach patiently lets him, oily hands dropping to rub together in his lap, eyelashes falling closed.

As he moves to swipe at a smear on Zach's jawline, it suddenly strikes him—this is how Zach looks at people. Mapping a face, the way Zoe had so gleefully teased him at the mere thought of it.

But as he (accidentally-on-purpose) brushes his thumb over the softness of Zach's bottom lip and feels the sandpaper rough prickle of the stubble beneath, he realizes exactly why. It's so intimate, sensual almost, touching Zach like this, and as much as he wants to keep doing it, to learn the curves and planes of his face by touch the way he knows it by sight, he should stop. But he wants to just lean in, kiss him the way he had his girlfriend once so long ago, not that far from here. It's too much. Far too intimate for Disneyland.

"'S better," he mutters, pulling his hands away and rubbing the rest of the greasy lotion down the thighs of his own jeans. He'd like to believe he can smell Zach underneath the heavy, cloying aroma of coconut. He clears his throat and spots an ice cream vendor nearby, "Let's get ice cream. Take the heat off."

Taking down a chocolate cone in record time from the opposite bench across the umbrella-covered table, he watches Zach eat his cup of vanilla with sprinkles (he'd specified rainbow rather than just chocolate) much more slowly as he talks.

"Back in Pittsburgh, there's an amusement park called Kennywood. Started as sort of picnic, lover's lane sort of forest grove on property owned by the Mellon family, you know, of Carnegie Mellon fame. Then they added carousels and soda fountains and other rides. It has the best rollercoasters. The Thunderbolt is awesome. And there was this one ride, the Enterprise, that's basically like a ferris wheel on speed. It starts out horizontal, and then as it goes faster, it tilts vertical," he mimics the motion with his hand, "And the cars swing out, so that it spins you upside down. Joe and I would ride that thing until were were so dizzy we could barely walk without falling over."

Chris laughs with him, trying to imagine that, particularly Joe with anything less than a scowl on his face. Zach has a lot of memories of his life before his accident, yet he's never once expressed the sentiment that he wishes he could see, at least not to Chris.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can," Zach answers, with a smile like he knows what it's all about.

Chris sits back and gestures to everything, mostly for his own benefit. "What are you getting out of this, man?"

"You think I'm not having fun?"

"No, I can tell that you are. I'm just wondering how when you can't see any of this stuff. Everything here is so… I don't know, visually based. It doesn't seem fair."

Zach spoons up the melting remains of his ice cream and licks it before he answers, folding his forearms on the table and slowly turning his head around them, listening. "There's a little girl at about three o'clock, the ice cream stand, and she's so excited. I don't know what language that is, but it's beautiful. 'I want' sounds the same in every language from a child's mouth, did you know that?" He smiles, moving on, "I can hear songs in the shops and in the lines, every Disney song from every Disney film ever made, from the very beginning." He turns again, inhaling. "I can smell caramel corn, and hot dogs, and people who don't know what deodorant is and people who wear too much perfume, and gear grease from the rides, and the trash can to our left. A second ago, I stuck my finger in the gum some dick left under the bench I'm on. Spearmint," he shrugs, wiping said finger on his napkin. "I can feel the breeze and the sun, and it's not cloudy today because…" he lifts his face to the full blast of sunlight, firing in his irises like amber for a moment as his pupils sluggishly try and mostly fail to compensate, and he smiles wondrously, "I can see it. Almost." He blinks away, still not supposed to look too long, and back toward Chris, and his face is happy, content. "I don't have to see to experience this place. It's still Disneyland."

Chris has been smiling through most of his explanation. "Like no place else on Earth, right?"

"Nope," Zach grins wide. "Plus you love it. You're a California boy to your bones and you've been here a hundred times, and you're still into it."

"Yeah," he laughs.

Zach reaches over the table, palm up, and Chris sits up to take it. It's not a handshake.

"Happy birthday."

"Thanks." He stares at their hands and then around to see if anyone is looking. Not because he's embarrassed, but because he kind of wants someone to see.

 

They make their way through the long line to the Pirates of the Caribbean by the end of the afternoon, having nearly exhausted their endurance for rides as the sun is beginning to approach the horizon. Zach loves the Pirates movies, largely because he loves Johnny Depp—"Had a massive crush on him since _Benny and Joon_ ," he'd once told Chris when they had watched _Fear and Loathing_ one night. Chris tells him how they changed the ride after the movies came out, but it's not too much different than he remembers. The dog is still there, which is important to him. Chris tells him it looks like Noah, and Zach grins in answering, "You know, I don't really know what Noah looks like. I just picked him because he licked my face, and I liked the texture of his fur."

Once outside again, they find the Captain Jack Sparrow character is out on the streets, interacting with everyone.

"You there!" he strides up to them, "Have you seen my ship? Large, magnificent vessel, black sails, beautiful thing, it's… oh." He hesitates, looking Zach up and down. "Oh. Clearly, you _haven't_ seen my ship."

"Clearly," Zach grins, eating this up.

Captain Jack steps back theatrically, searching Zach's face for a moment and impersonating Depp's silly facial expressions and gestures pretty well, but there's a flicker in his kohl-lined eyes. Chris can't help but be somewhat impressed; the actor is obviously a little thrown by Zach, but he's not breaking character. 

In a second, he spreads his puffy-sleeved arms and says, "Fancy meeting you here, Major General."

Chris blinks. Zach inhales sharply, before he strikes an almost theatrical pose himself and responding, "Indeed." He tucks his cane backward at his hip as if it's a sword hilt and offers the other hand to shake.

The man doesn't take it. He draws himself up, propping his hand on the hilt of his own sword. "There were never any more messages in bottles."

Zach darts his tongue across his lips, a flash of something dark and sad across his expression. "I'm sorry, I was… indisposed. Shipwrecked, as it were." His hand is still outstretched.

Captain Jack eyeballs it skeptically, "Do I owe you money?"

"I think you owe me an explanation, at the very least," Zach replies. "You being known by a different name these days, _Jack_." People are stopping around them now, watching the encounter. Something is happening here that Chris can't quite comprehend. He knows a little bit about this world, about how the character actors in this park are expected to interact with the public, that there are expectations about what they say and how they say it. There are handlers in park shirts watching the exchange, around in case the public is overzealous, but so far neither they or any of the spectators seem to think something's up.

"Well, one finds one must put away childish things. Names, personas, twaddle," Captain Jack answers with a flamboyant gesture, looking Zach over again. "Things seem to have gone a bit… dim for you of late."

"So it would seem," Zach says, inclining his head.

Captain Jack looks him over again, fingers wriggling with some sort of anxiousness that Chris thinks isn't entirely character-driven. Taking the outstretched hand and leaning in toward Zach, Jack speaks loudly enough that the observers can still hear, "I just want you know that what happened with Mabel was, erm… amicable. Eighty years is a long time, you know. It was never going to work out between us. No hard feelings. Eh?"

"I suppose not," Zach agrees. "The man who finds his conscious ache no peace at all enjoys."

"Good, as long as that's cleared up," Jack steeples his ringed fingers in front of him, "What _are_ you doing here?"

Zach laughs and reaches out a hand to his right for Chris' arm, "We're celebrating a birthday."

Chris ducks his head bashfully at being drawn into this, with a crowd watching no less, but Jack merely lurches back dramatically and flutters over to a girl of about nine in a nearby wheelchair. "It's not the 29th of February already, is it?"

"No. It's August, silly," she giggles.

"Ah good!" Jack exclaims, flapping back, "I love birthdays!" He darts up to Chris, wringing his hand, "Many happy returns, let them eat cake and all that. Everyone, three cheers for wots-his-face's birthday. Huzzah!"

Chris scrubs at his hair, pink-faced at the fuss of bystanders who don't even know him playing along, with Zach the loudest of them all. He catches the actor's eyes, watching with his hands on his hips and darting a significant, appraising look between the pair of them. Chris surreptitiously moves closer to Zach and lifts his eyes to the guy, and yeah, maybe he's projecting a little possessiveness, but Zach doesn't know that. Jack, however, gives Chris another once-over and a nod that to the crowd might seem like celebratory camaraderie, but the flush of heat in Chris' chest takes in an entirely different way.

"Major General, I am terribly sorry, but I have to see a man about a dog," Jack loops his arm over Zach's shoulders, "Perhaps we should catch up over a bottle of rum, eh? If you're ever in Tortuga, do look me up."

"Tortuga. Right," Zach parrots, and with that Captain Jack is off along the cobblestoned street, asking everyone in sight if they've seen his ship.

Zach chuckles under his breath, one hand covering his smile and his cheeks bright pink, but it's not the sunburn or childish joy for the situation.

Later, when they are surrounded by the lanterns and azure-lit interior of the Blue Bayou restaurant with stomachs full of dinner, Chris regards Zach over the table. His face had gone deep and introspective a dozen times as they ate, even though he'd responded to everything conversational with interest. Chris decides to chance what he thinks is really on his mind.

"So. Captain Jack," he says.

Zach closes his eyes a few moments longer than a typical blink with a small smile. "Captain Jack. That was something, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Chris pauses, considering again whether he really wants to know. "Who was it, really?"

Zach pushes his hands into his lap under the table, chewing his lip. "It was… I mean it was hard to tell, but... I think it was someone I used to know."

Chris nods, understanding. The actor had been fully in character and hadn't done anything to break it, but Chris remembers that Zach had once had acting aspirations, had been into theater as a teenager. "Someone from school? Frederic to your Major General, maybe?"

Inhaling, Zach cracks a nervous smile, bringing his knuckles up to his mouth to press against his teeth. "Did he… was there a mole by his left eyebrow?"

Chris thinks back. The guy had looked _a lot_ like the Depp character, probably how he landed the job, but he tries to think back to the details of his face that weren't quite right. "I think so? A small one, maybe."

And that makes Zach huff out a breath and shake his head in disbelief, pushing a hand up through his hair. Chris can read the gesture like a book. This guy was someone Zach knew before everything had changed for him, someone who had played opposite him on stage, and apparently had meant a lot to him. Chris leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over the squirm in his gut that isn't dinner. "Old boyfriend, then."

"First. First boyfriend," Zach corrects, looking both anxious, elated and a little freaked out. He shakes his head. "His family moved away, after that year we were in the play. He moved out here, to California." Zach taps his fingers against the side of his soda glass. "We wrote letters for a while, trying to make it work. That was the summer of my accident, so."

"No more messages in bottles."

"No," Zach murmurs at the tabletop.

Chris taps his foot, biting his lip as a thought arises in him that he doesn't really want to suggest. "Did you want to go try to find him again?"

"No! God, no." Zach's eyes widen as his fingers play with his spoon, and the thing in Chris' gut does a celebratory little dance. He watches as Zach shrugs one shy shoulder, "Just… it's so weird. I hope he's happy. Doing this. It's sort of what he wanted, I guess."

Chris looks around blankly, trying to sort his own feelings out. They don't talk about relationships, it's sort of an unspoken thing, but the knowledge that this guy knew Zach that way makes him ache with jealousy, but not in the way he feels towards Ferguson. Ferguson doesn't deserve to lay a finger on Zach, but takes his money for the privilege, and Chris fucking hates it, hates the idea of it, hates that Zach can't see what he sees in the guy, professional or not. 

But this Jack (Frederic, whoever, he's not sure he really wants to know his real name), saw Zach through those memorable firsts. First touches, kisses, hot and heavy secret make-outs with the bedroom door half open, maybe secret fucks in the backseat his mom's car. Saw him through the shattering, wild emotions of that first love. This guy had Zach first, and had him whole.

Zach would probably hate him for even thinking such a thing. "He seemed surprised to see you," he offers, to make up for it.

"Did he?" Zach asks nervously. "Was he weird about it, though? About all this," he indicates his whole face, not just his eyes.

"No, not really," Chris thinks about the look Jack had given him, almost like he thought they were a couple, and that approving little nod. Selfishly, he indulges in the fantasy. "I think he was just bewildered by it. Plus, you don't look the same as you did back then."

"Whatever," Zach laughs bashfully.

Chris grins, "You don't."

Zach bites his lip and thinks for awhile before he speaks again. "It's kind of good, really. That I didn't see him. That I can't."

"Is it?"

"Yeah," he says, "It makes it easier not to dwell on."

Chris can briefly see Jason's face in his mind, but pushes it away to stare at Zach instead. "Yeah."

Zach is vacant for another minute, before he seems to snap out of it. "I'm sorry. It's your birthday. Order something sweet, go on."

"Nah," Chris mutters.

"You've been playing with the dessert menu all night," Zach tells him, grinning. "Don't lie."

"I was looking for the hidden drink menu," he counters, though he knows full well none of the park restaurants serve alcohol.

"Christopher, you will order cake, and you will like it," Zach points at him. "And I'm going to eat some of it."

Chris grabs his finger, initiating a childish slap-fight that he knows is blatant flirting, until their waitress turns up to ask if they want something else.

"It's his birthday," Zach informs her mischievously, "I think someone should sing."

And being in the employ of Disneyland, she grabs three nearby waiters and does, loudly and with Zach joining in, before Chris orders something from the dessert menu just to make them go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Enterprise ride at Kennywood does exist, and once had sort of a futuristic space theme, but it was restyled in 2003 and is now known as the Volcano. Take from that what you will. ;)
> 
> I hope I haven't taken _Pirates of the Caribbean_ and _The Pirates of Penzance_ too far out of context. I know one far better than the other.


	9. Chapter 9

Katie has always been the perpetually busy one in the family. It isn't often that she comes down from San Fran, and she always has some sort of conference or function or other itinerary to work around. Meeting for coffee is often the best they can do to catch up about the goings-on in each other's lives.

"Anyway, I'll have the coursework finished in a couple of months, maybe less. Then I take the exams."

"Good," she pulls the cardboard off her cup to warm her hands with it. "Then what?"

"Then I guess I apply for student teaching positions to get the practical hours in," he answers, "And hopefully get a bite."

His sister grins, "I can't believe you want to teach the same kids who tormented your whole existence back in the day. Diving back into the shark tank."

"Well, not the _same_ kids," he shrugs, but yes, the prospect is daunting.

"They'll like you," she says, "You're not that big a dweeb anymore. You're cute, the teenage girls will go nuts."

"Whatever, I'm not even going there," Chris shakes his head, chuckling. He can't even imagine the kids paying him any attention at all. When he was in high school, the object of the student teacher's day was largely to make them lose their shit and give up.

"You'll have them so thoroughly engrossed in Nietzsche they'll fail to notice he was a misogynistic prick."

"I don't think that they'd let me start with Nietzsche."

"Fine, whatever," she rolls her eyes, "Just feed them the whole 'O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again' bullshit and they'll listen to anything you say. Girls and boys included."

He laughs and sits back, crossing his arms. As often as people compliment his looks, even from his sister, it's still hard to believe. He still sees the dorky pockmarked kid in the mirror. Never mind there's only one person whose opinion matters to him right now, and that person will never even know exactly what he looks like.

"Would it be weird if I started liking guys again?" he muses.

"Again?" Katie shakes her head, "Chris, your sexuality doesn't come with an off switch."

"I know, just…" he bites his lip, tapping at the side of his coffee cup. "It's so sporadic. It's been, what, ten years since I've so much as looked at another guy? I mean, why didn't Kinsey include halfsies?"

"Like it would help define you better? You're a Lit geek who occasionally likes men. Done. That makes you a one, incidentally, no halfsies necessary, and even that doesn't help you. Bisexuality doesn't operate on this magic one-guy-to-every-eleven girls-in-a-set-timeline or whatever rule you've got in your head. The only person making a big deal out of the weirdness of it is you, seeing as no one else knows."

"Other people know," he retorts. "Some of my friends know. John knows."

Katie merely arches a brow at him and pulls off a bite of her muffin, "John would probably prefer not to know."

Chris gives half a grin in agreement.

"So there's a guy."

He nods, looking at his hands.

"And it's weird because…?"

"It's different this time."

She sighs, "Chris, it's always different. No two people are the same, ergo every potential relationship is different. Granted, there's only been two guys you've told me about, but—"

"There's only ever been the two," he says. "That's the thing. I barely have a baseline to go by, here."

"Well," she says, "The first time, all you did was obsess and write shitty poetry and creep on him like such a little dork, you freaked him the hell out. It didn't quite count."

"Your sense of compassion leaves a lot to be desired, Doc," Chris scowls across at her. "It also didn't help that he was straight and dating your best friend."

"Whatever," she shrugs, "And the second one was just an asshole."

Chris winces at the word. "He wasn't an asshole." Sometimes he wishes he'd never told her about Jason.

"He took advantage of your inexperience to get his rocks off and then bailed when you got emotional, Chris. He was an asshole," she flares up angrily, making other patrons of the coffeeshop patio look up. "And a coward."

Chris is silent. His sister doesn't sound much like a psychologist with an aim towards relationship counseling when it comes to him, and he honestly prefers it that way. But he still has a hard time rationalizing it the way she does. He'd come up with a hundred reasons to blame himself for a long time, before it ever occurred to him that Jason had done exactly what Katie said he had. He knows he shouldn't defend the guy.

It wasn't even a relationship, no matter how much Chris had wanted it to be in each encounter. Outside of their public debates and the ensuing trysts afterwards, there wasn't a lot to it, and while at the time Chris chalked it up to them both being busy with college, in reality it was largely one-sided in the emotional department. He was young and naive and a fucking English major, so of course he read too much into the haze of lust that came with each clash, romanticized it to a point that when Jason was finished with him, he refused to believe the obvious for years before he figured it out. It wasn't a relationship. He wasn't a boyfriend to a man whose intellect was as mindblowing as the things he did to Chris' body. He was a fucktoy. It was an arrangement of convenience. And it still stings after all this time.

"So, now that you're into guys again, how long has this been a thing?" she pries.

"I don't know," he shrugs, looking off down the street. "This guy moved here in the spring."

"You've had a crush since spring?" Katie is surprised, "What, is he straight?"

"No," Chris breathes a laugh, "No, he's very much gay."

"So what's the problem?"

"He's… we're friends," he explains, "Pretty close friends."

"Is he taken?"

Chris inhales, clenching his teeth. "I… I don't know."

"You don't know if he's seeing anyone. And you're close friends."

"I… maybe. He might be, I don't… we don't talk about it."

"Jesus, Chris," she rolls her eyes, "You know, contrary to whatever Grandpa or Uncle Paul or anyone else taught you, it is actually okay for guys to talk about feelings. With each other. Is his boyfriend an embarrassment to mankind or what?"

"Yes. Probably," Chris sours, thinking of Ferguson, and his stupid car and his Save the Tigers and his fucking hands. "Look, I don't… he might be seeing this massage guy, or it might be casual. I just don't know, okay?"

Katie raises her eyebrows, thoughtful for a minute before she nods. "Okay. Are you still looking at women too? Do the two of you go out on boy's nights like that?"

He hesitates. He hasn't gone out looking for a one-off since the few scratched attempts the week Zach had come back from New York. He takes a deep breath, "No. No women. When we go out, it's usually just us. Or we stay in."

Katie raises her eyebrows again at that. "What's he like?"

Chris smiles shyly at his empty cup. "He's… different."

"Unhelpful," she intones, "Use your words."

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he takes a breath and laughs, "He's smart. He's a freelance editor, works from home for some pretty big people, so he's got his shit together, you know? He's funny. Sardonic, dry. Sassy, sometimes. He's a musical theater geek, he loves singing and showtunes. And he loves animals, he has a dog and a cat. And he loves books. That's how we met, obviously, he came into the shop." He pauses to look up and finds her grinning behind her knuckles. "Shut up."

Katie shakes her head on a giggle, "I have never heard you describe your crushes without extrapolating on their lips or their eyes or their legs or their boobs—"

"He's good looking," he says, biting on his own grin.

"Uh huh."

Chris rolls his eyes and his head back, "He's really fucking hot, okay?" He sighs, planting his elbows on the table and palming his face, "He's just… you know how tall, dark and handsome is a thing? I didn't know it was a thing, but it's actually a real thing." She cackles, and he plunges on, "I mean, we go to jogging or to the gym and he's just… he's my height, but he's so lean, he looks taller. Long legs."

"Ah, _there's_ your thing with the legs."

"Shush," he retorts with a grin, "And he's all these stark contrasts. Dark eyes, dark hair, pale complexion; he can look really intense sometimes. But when I read to him, or when I play my guitar, his face just goes so soft and—"

"Wait, what? You read to him?" she snorts, "Out loud?"

"Shit," Chris grits his teeth at the slip, scrubbing an angry hand up through his hair. "I didn't want it to be about this."

"About what?" she frowns, "What are you talking about?"

"He had an accident, okay? When he was younger," he says, looking imploringly across at her. "He can't see."

Katie blinks at him, her expression serious. "O-kay. Like Grandma Whitelaw or Ray Charles?"

He drills her with a look and a head shake.

"And you didn't think that was important to mention?"

"No, I didn't mention it because it makes people weird about him, okay? He hates that. And I didn't… I don't want it to be about that. It's about everything else but that," He huffs, trying to hold down his annoyance. "All people ever see is the blind guy."

She quietly stares at him for so long it makes him uncomfortable. 

"What?"

Katie shakes her head, the look in her eyes still bright and curious and voice quiet, "You're just really different about this guy."

"I told you," Chris shakes his head and mutters down to his coffee. "I don't even know if I'm going to do anything. Hell, I don't even know how he feels."

"You said you were close, though."

"It's different with him, K," he sighs. "Never mind I can barely read guys as it is. He's tactile, but duh, he's blind, he's going to hold my hand because he has to sometimes. He's a hugger, so am I. He likes it when I read to him because my voice is better than listening to a computerized screen reader. He might have something going on with his massage therapist, and I don't fucking like it, but it's not like I can say anything."

"Why not?"

"Because," he answers. And receives the patented Whitelaw _bitch, please_ face. "He obviously doesn't know how I feel. I don't really even know what I want, when I try to think about it as a reality. I don't want him to know until I've figured myself out. I don't want my past shit to be his problem."

"Chris, your past shit makes you who you are, that's just the way life works," she tells him. "Is there any reason you think he wouldn't understand that? Or can you just not get past the blind thing?"

He levels a vicious look of disdain across the table, picking up his trash as if to leave, "You know what? Fuck that. If that's what you think, you can just—"

"Okay, okay!" she holds up her hands. "I had to ask. But if it's not that, I honestly don't know what's holding you back. Outside of the idea that you might be considering a relationship with a man that finally has some potential, and that scares the fuck out of you."

Chris worries his lip, settling back down. Trust Katie to see right down to the crux.

None of his long term relationships have ended well. None of those women are even a part of his life anymore, in any capacity. He can hardly imagine living right across the street from any of them, able to just look across, a little voyeuristic window into their lives post-Chris. "I don't want to fuck up again. Not with him."

"You can't fuck up if you don't let the thing happen in the first place."

"Exactly."

"Are you sure you don't want to take up the family business?" Katie deadpans, "Because psychoanalyzing the shit out of things is something you're freakishly into, just FYI."

He laughs for a moment, trailing off, but then he sobers up, "What am I going to tell Mom and Dad? I mean, if I…"

"I guess you'll just have to tell them," His sister sighs, looking away. "It'll be fine, they're… well, you know. Mom'll be fine. Dad might take a bit, but he'll come around." She glances back at him, "So, it's serious, huh?"

"He took me to Disneyland for my birthday."

"Oh shit," she giggles. "And you're sure you're not dating already? Because, dude."

"Pretty sure," he mutters. "I figure I'd be getting laid a lot more frequently if that was the case."

"And on _that_ note," she says, pushing her muffin away and looking at her watch. "I'm supposed to stop by a friend's office in twenty, I should go."

He gets up to help her clear their trash, walking her back to her car. "Hey, don't wait too long to pull the trigger, okay? Massage therapists are very sexy." He makes a cranky noise as he gives her a hug goodbye. "And call me more often, Princess."

"Katie, fuckin' _do not_ bring that shit back," he growls, stepping back on the curb. "I mean it."

"I want to meet your boyfriend. He sounds delicious."

"He's not—" he stutters as she gets in the car and shuts the door, offering a little wave out the moon roof. "Dammit."


	10. Chapter 10

While John The Cho—husband, Dad on Diaper Duty, high school English teacher by day, part time bookstore clerk by night—has settled somewhat from his college days, there is one night of the year when he is allowed let the old Cho of yore out to play.

The Cho's throw the Halloween party to attend if you're anybody who's anybody in the neighborhood, or if you aren't in the neighborhood but know somebody who is. Evites go out, RSVP's expected, no kids allowed, and a costume befitting the theme is mandatory.

And of course, Chris is always that guy who leaves it to the last damned minute. Cho's theme this year is Broadway (he suspects Zach did some coercing during a Friday's Cheesewhiz Chess game when he wasn't paying attention). When he finally gets around to thinking about it, looking up a few things and stopping in the costume shops, the selection is down to bare bones.

There are generic tuxes and old-fashioned suits that could pass for anything from _Newsies_ to _Mary Poppins_. There are godawful furry full-bodysuit things that could pass for either Muppets or _Cats_ , which—no. He's not talented or imaginative enough to make a costume from scratch. Loincloth and body paint, a lá _The Lion King_? No, too damn cold. And the jeans, white t-shirt and leather jacket Danny Zuko combo is too close to his everyday fare at this time of year anyway (minus the shoe polish slicked greaser hair).

In the end, he finds himself eyeballing a plastic-draped, generic pirate costume that has seen many a party in its day on a nearly empty rack. _Penzance_ was on Broadway once, right? Zach would appreciate that. Chris rolls his eyes at the idea that he's seeking Zach's approval on this, a man who probably doesn't actually get a hell of a lot out of a costume party, even though he seems pretty excited about this one. Zach, the fucker who's been all coy and secretive about what his own costume will be for the past two weeks.

He grudgingly tries the thing on, and grudgingly finds it fits pretty well. But it has a weird smell, and some seriously questionable stains on the velveteen pants that he doesn't want to know the origins of. The clerk insists the costumes are heavily dry-cleaned every time they are returned, but Chris is still perturbed. "Can I get a discount or something?"

"Dude," the bored teenager behind the register says, "You're the one who waited until the night before Halloween."

The evening of the party, he's still critical. He's tempted to douse the thing with half a bottle of Febreze, but he thinks that might be part of the problem; it's been drenched in some combo of heavy colognes for years and now has an overwhelmingly muddled, musty funk because of it. The leather knee-boots lace up well, disguising his skinny calves, and if he arranges the sash just so over the pants and belt, the stains don't show. The shirt is thin and billowy with laces up the wide collar. The gaudy, long curly wig he leaves in the bag, it freaks him out enough he doesn't even want to put it on his head, but the wide-brimmed hat he keeps, for the plumy black ostrich feather that puts the whole thing this side of ridiculous. A dark blue frock coat with big deep cuffs pulls the whole thing together. He's no Captain Jack, but he's scruffy enough right now to pull off sort of a new recruit look. It's the best he can pull out of his ass at the last minute.

And he is waiting till past the last minute, futzing around the house before he finally grabs his keys to leave. He doesn't mind Cho's parties, used to love them back in the day. Sometimes his introverted side just doesn't want to turn on and be That Guy anymore, the guy he'd trained himself in those days to be because it was expected, because it got him friends and places. That was the guy Jason was into, if he was into him at all beyond the physical attraction. Nowadays he prefers the easy camaraderie of his small group of friends, or the one-on-one he gets so much of with Zach. Because for a blind guy, Zach is fantastic at focusing his attention, and when that focus is on Chris, there's nothing better.

When he arrives at Cho's, it's Spiderman who opens the door.

"What the hell is this, fourth grade?" Chris leers.

Anton tugs the mask off over his head, " _Turn Off The Dark_? Hellooo."

"Come on, though, those are just your favorite jammies. There's no creativity in that."

Anton flips him off, "Said the pirate. I saw that costume in the shop, by the way. Did you get a discount for those stains?"

Chris grabs the kid and noogies the shit out of his curls until he shrieks. "Who else is here?" he asks, following him to the kitchen. There are plenty of people milling around already, some he knows and some he doesn't among the Cho's large circle of friends.

Anton pulls the mask partially over his head like a beanie hat, grabbing a plastic cup to fill from the keg set in a bucket on the kitchen floor. "Everybody, I think. You're late."

"Yeah?" Chris pops a couple of chips in his mouth and looks around. There's beer, wine, mixers, a steaming crockpot of spiked cider, chips and dip and an array of other nibblers spread over the countertop, not to mention candy of all kinds on every available surface throughout the house for the taking. The ceilings are strung with orange and black streamers, bats, spiders and webs, lightbulbs in lamps and overhead lights replaced with red and black lights. The Cho's go all out.

He spots Cho himself in a purple pinstriped zoot suit and a fedora, presiding over the living room. When he sees Chris he points, and Chris strides over to fistbump. "Cho! Man, what is this!" He tugs at the jacket lapel, smiling widely.

Cho puts on his best Brando and says, "They say every man's a king, and I'm the king around here."

"Wrong movie, sweetie," Kerri leans a hand on his shoulder, dressed like a vaudevillian flapper that Chris thinks might be Velma.

"And don't you forget it," Cho grins down at her, tipping the brim of the hat up with a finger.

"Gimme that," Chris says, grabbing for the fedora and replacing it with his own befeathered pirate hat.

Kerri cackles brightly and Cho grins, "You keep that, Captain."

Chris jauntily sets the fedora on his own head, leaning to give Kerri a kiss on the cheek and tell her she looks beautiful.

He needed to pee on the way over and weaves through the house, skirting and greeting people here and there as he heads for the bathroom. He spots Ferguson among a contingent of people from Zoe's dance company and sneers inwardly. The guy's wearing nothing more than jeans, a t-shirt and a flannel, hardly a costume at all, outside of not being his usual 'Protect the Polar Bears' fare. It takes a second before he recognizes Joe, dressed as the Phantom and harder to recognize with only one scruffy eyebrow showing. Quickly, he scans the rest of the crowd. If Joe's here, that means Zach must be. But he doesn't see or hear him over the showtunes playing, so he heads down the dim, black-light and glow-in-the-dark adorned hallway to find the bathroom already occupied.

Leaning against the wall beside the closed door of the kid's bedroom to wait, he can hear giggling from inside. It makes him roll his eyes. It's what, only around eight-thirty, and people are already fucking around in John's bedrooms? But then the giggling progresses to a familiar cackling. 

"Just stay still!"

"You're going to poke my eye out!"

Zach's voice. Chris' heart does a funny flip in his chest.

"Not if you stay still," Zoe says, "I mean it. Sit on your damn hands. I can sit on you if that'll help."

More giggling, and then silence, and then a nervous humming noise from Zach. "I'm going to look so silly."

"Baby, I promise you won't look silly," she answers, "Well, as compared to the rest of us. Silly is allowed on Halloween, but pulling off sexy is a talent, and you're doing that all by yourself."

"She says," Zach giggles. "Your skirt is very frilly, Anita."

"Yes it is. Be. Still."

There's another quiet stretch that has Chris holding his breath, and then Zach says, "Are you going for Lana Turner or Raquel Welch?"

She laughs, "Neither. Okay, you're done. Damn, that's hot."

"Shut up." The words are betrayed by how pleased he sounds.

"No touching! Don't rub them," she says, then laughs, "Oh, wait 'til Chris sees. Come on."

With that, a woman dressed some kind of witch leaves the bathroom and Chris darts in, slamming the door just as they come tumbling out, not wanting to seem like he was hovering in wait.

His stares at himself in the mirror, pirate costume with a misplaced fedora, and realizes his heart is pounding in his ribs. What the hell was he thinking, dressing as a pirate? What does that even mean? _Oh hey, Zach, remember when we met your boyfriend that you were obviously insanely in love with at some point? Look, I can be a pirate too, see?_

He shakes his head hard. This line of thought is ridiculous. Zach _can't_ see, so it doesn't even fucking matter. He laughs at himself, pees and then wets his hands and slaps his face with them before heading back out.

He weaves back through to the kitchen, grabbing a cup and dipping out some of the hot cider. It's sweet and spicy, with a bite of brandy on the back end. Munching on the slice of apple floating in it, he hears the music in the living room abruptly kick up louder, along with several whoops and cheers, and goes to see what's up.

What he's _not_ prepared to see is a show, complete with several girls he recognizes from Zoe's dance crew, bobbing to the beat of "Willkommen", lyrics and stylings provided by none other than one Master of Ceremonies, Zachary Quinto.

In tight leather pants. And very little else.

Well, not little else, but what is there is basically designed to draw attention to what's obviously not covered up. There's a bowtie around his neck, and no less than three sets of skinny suspenders, two black, criss-crossing his bare chest, and a third white set, dangling backwards around his thighs, the X framing his crotch. His legs go on forever, incased in black, fitted and zippered leather, completed with big, heavy, half-laced Doc Martens. His hair is slicked, wet looking yet floppy, and his eyes kohl-lined and intense as hell. He vamps around with the music, twirling not his usual long, straight cane, but the short hook-ended one he dubbed his Buster Keaton cane as he says in a German accent, "We are here to serve you!"

A slim hand skates over Chris' shoulder, another tipping gently under his jaw to push it shut. "Wipe your chin, sweetie," Zoe giggles in his ear as Zach keeps up the performance in the circle of people clapping to the beat. He knows all the words, and while he doesn't move around too much, it doesn't even matter that he can't see his impromptu living room stage, people have backed to the walls to watch and the four girls work around him (all clearly familiar with the play, even if most of their costumes aren't), darting in to play the parts of Rosie, Frenchie, Lulu, and Texas.

"Did they plan this out or something?" he asks Zoe.

"I don't think so, the song just came on and he jumped on it," she grins back at him, "So how do you like his costume, hmm?" She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

"Shut up," he grunts under his breath. But fuck, does he like it. "Did you help him, uh, put it together or what?"

"I wish," Joe suddenly appears, his face even more menacing for the mask he wears. "There isn't enough bleach in this world for the things he made me look at. Believe me, this is the tame version."

"What was the wild version?" Zoe leans across Chris to ask him.

"There were fishnets," Joe looks constipated. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Aw, come on," Zoe grouses in jest, "Male burlesque is all kinds of hot."

"Ask me that when it isn't my brother, okay," Joe gives her a sour look. "Mom would murder me if he broke his ankles a second time."

Chris gives that the laugh it deserves. He can feel Joe scrutinizing him, and occupies himself by finding a surface to set his drink on in order to clap loudly with everyone else as the number comes to an end. Zach bows with a flourish, and Chris can't help but think of how much he'd adore the stage if he could have it back.

The music shifts to something else, and Zoe shouts and darts off, trying to get Zach's attention among the dozens of people surrounding him, giving him hugs and pats on the back. 

Joe shakes his head, taking a gulp of beer from a solo cup. "Always a whore for attention," he rumbles.

Chris isn't sure how to respond, even though Joe stares at him critically for a second before some girl bumps drunkenly past him, distracting him to flirt a little as he helps her right the end table that had almost toppled.

Zoe eventually tugs Zach back, saying, "Guess who's here."

"Um, a lot of people I don't know," Zach grins, "Did I just grab some girl's boob? Because I should probably apologize."

Zoe snorts, "Trust me, honey, Whitney does not care who cops a feel when she's dancing. Chris is here."

Zach straightens, eyes widening as he inhales, "Chris is here?"

"Chris is here," Chris says himself with a grin.

"Chris is here! Oh my god, hi!" Zach brightens, as he opens his arms for a hug. Chris answers it, briefly, before pulling away. Because Zach is fucking shirtless and Joe is right there. He wants to curl a finger into the X of the backwards suspenders across his chest, framing pert, pink, slightly hairy nipples. His chest hair is _glittery_. Jesus.

"Good party?" he asks, to fill the space. Zoe winks at him and flits away.

Zach laughs, his nose wrinkling up on the sides. "I'm having so much fun. Thirsty."

"Here," Chris hands over his cider, and Zach squeezes his arm as he gulps some down. "That was some performance." Joe rolls his eyes.

Zach swallows and blushes. Fucking _blushes_. "I used to practice that whole scene when I was like twelve."

"Yeah," Joe grumbles, "Broke two lamps and one of Mom's favorite vases before he was banned from doing it inside the house."

"Hush," Zach swats out at his brother, "Go get me a drink."

"Get it yourself, smartass," Joe responds, excusing himself and heading in the direction the cute girl had gone.

Chris snorts, taking both Zach's hands, tugging him toward the kitchen. "There's food too," he says, dipping Zach more of the cider. "It's sort of everywhere. Did you want me to make you a plate?"

Zach smiles, sipping from the cup and leaning his leather-clad butt against the counter. "Whatever you're getting."

Piling two paper plates with a little of everything, they eat huddled in a corner of the kitchen as people move in and out, vague interruptions of people still raving at Zach.

"This is so fun," he says, "I didn't know John knew so many people."

Chris laughs. "You should have seen the house parties we had in college. They only called the cops on us twice."

Zach quirks a brow, "I thought you said he graduated when you were still a freshman."

"I meant twice in that year," Chris corrects himself to Zach's amusement. "The parties were never quite the same without him."

Zach finishes a chicken wing, sucking the spicy sauce from his fingers and the web of his palm. Chris looks away, but his eyes keep crawling back. He'd never imagined this. He figured Zach would dress up, but as something from one of the plays he claims as favorites, a _South Pacific_ officer, maybe, or _Sweeney Todd_. Something that involved more clothes. More less provocative clothes. Chris feels like an idiot standing next to him in his stupid pirate garb.

"I bet you were fun in college," Zach grins, "With a big backpack, quoting Neruda and arguing the validity of _Visions of Cody_ to anyone who would listen."

"And big glasses, don't forget the glasses," Chris adds, recalling a conversation they'd had on that subject. "I was… different in college," he says, picking at his food. "Young. Stupid."

"Weren't we all," Zach ducks his head to say, his fingers finding a group of chips on his plate and crunching through them. 

Chris would have loved to known Zach in college. What he does know of Zach's late teens and college years is somewhat gut-wrenching. It had taken him him two and a half years to learn to walk without an obvious limp, and three more to learn to read braille with the sort of proficiency he expected of himself and needed at a college level. He'd finished his GED at nineteen, at home with his mother's help. He'd had to jump through various academic hoops to get audio textbooks, notes and other materials on a daily basis in order to complete a four year degree at CMU, which, while the school was as accommodating as possible, was still an additional hassle. Chris can't imagine trying to download information into his own brain without the physical ability of seeing words and writing them down.

Chris leans close, smiling, "I don't know how you could be be stupid. I don't where you found the time in college."

Zach laughs, tipping his head back, "Oh trust me, I found time. I went to plenty of parties. My mom would've killed me if she knew some of the places I woke up."

"People you woke up with?" Chris arches an eyebrow.

"Bathrooms I woke up in, different cities, et cetera," Zach snorts. "I'm lucky I had people looking out for me, even though they were usually on the train with me and just as hungover." 

Chris laughs, trying to ignore a little wave of jealousy. Zach is still good friends with the volunteer tutors who had helped him in those days; he's heard Zach catch up with them over the phone on several occasions. He'd stayed with one of them, the one Zach calls Moose, when he'd gone to New York.

"You went quiet," Zach says, reaching out a searching hand. 

Chris catches it with a brief squeeze and drops it. "Just thinking. What if we'd met in college?"

Zach's grin is shy, "I was a huge dork."

"So was I," Chris says, "We'd be hanging out in the library, reading passages from Proust. Then we'd watch _Swann in Love_ in my room, and John would come in and make fun. And then he'd watch with us, because that asshole loves Proust. Don't let him tell you any different."

"You're my favorite," Zach responds with a giggle, with his unfocused gaze on the floor as he licks a glop of guacamole from his thumb.

"Zach! Come here," Zoe swirls into the kitchen, heels clacking, "You gotta come meet Alejandro," she grabs his arm and puts his empty plate on the counter, pulls him off with half an apologetic grin at Chris over her shoulder and mouthing, _I'll bring him back_.

Shaking his head, Chris tosses both plates in the trash, scraping the dredges of the cider pot. Most of the alcohol has probably cooked off, it's not really doing much for him.

He's considering the keg of beer when Cho saunters into the kitchen, Chris' pirate hat still on his head. Chris laughs and says, "You should borrow Joe's cape and Zach's cane to complete your pimp outfit."

Grinning, they swap hats, costumes once again looking complete. Cho glances around the kitchen, removing empty platters and pulling out another stack of solo cups to replace the empty bag. "No more cider?"

"All gone," Chris tells him, downing the last dredges in his cup. 

"Finally!" John shoots him a wicked grin and leans up on his tiptoes to pull down a huge punchbowl from the cabinet above the fridge, along with bottles of wine, hard liquor and other mixers. "Time to get this party started." 

"Oh _no_ ," Chris laughs hard.

"Oh _yes_."

"Oh, no, no, no."

"Yes, yes."

Cho pops the cork on a big bottle of sweet red and another of cheap champagne, he pours the both bottles into the bowl, along with several juices and a careful concoction of spirits. Watching him hit it with a shot of Everclear, Chris is already assessing his current level of inebriation and resolves to studiously allow himself only one cup of Cho's Atomic Sangria. He has virtually no memory of most things that transpired after imbibing this shit at many a college party, but the stories are unbelievably embarrassing and usually involve nakedness. He does have repressed memories of the mornings after, overall feelings of dread and agony that left him, probably for the best, resolving never to drink so heavily again. That shit is directly responsible for many a bad decision. It's lethal.

He looks through to the living room and spots Zach, still talking and laughing in a circle of new friends, and reconsiders. Maybe only half of one cup. Maybe he shouldn't at all.

But John continues pouring and mixing until he dips up a cup, holding it out to Chris. "Drink up, little guinea pig."

Groaning, Chris takes it and tries a tiny sip. Then a bigger gulp. "Shit, that's so good."

Cho gives a terribly evil laugh, pouring himself a virgin fruit juice and patting him on the cheek on his way back to the party. "Moderation, Captain. Moderation."

"Right," Chris sips again, follows him back out into the crowd. The dickwad never drinks his own poison. 

He ends up talking politics for a while with a friend of Kerri's, and then catching up with another guy he'd been in several classes with at Berkeley, making the rounds and keeping half an eye on Zach doing the same across the room, another drink in his hand. It's hard not to feel a little jealous in such an environment. Zach is captivating by his very nature, in or out of that costume. When he speaks people listen, when he smiles people look. He even catches smatterings of conversation between some of the girls, swooning over him, and laughs under his breath. 

At some point while chatting with some of Zoe's dancer friends and meeting their hangers-on, he makes the mistake of shaking Ferguson's hand before he even realizes he's there.

"You're a pirate," Ferguson says silkily. "How droll."

 _Droll? Really?_ Chris thinks, taking a gulp to keep from asking him if he thinks that means something it doesn't. He eyes Ferguson's ensemble critically in return. "So what are you supposed to be?"

The douche looks haughtily amused. "Zonker."

Chris blinks. "From the Doonesbury comic."

Ferguson shakes his head, "No, no, from the 1983 play, based on the comic. It was very obscure." He waves a hand in a gesture that suggests he's casually excusing Chris' obvious lack of culture while simultaneously classing him in with the uneducated masses who missed such a _tour de force_ in Broadway's history. Never mind Ferguson himself was probably in diapers at the time.

"Uh huh," Chris chokes down a gulp of sangria to keep from laughing, knowing full well Ferguson probably typed the exact words _obscure Broadway plays_ into Google with the intention of a) finding something absolutely no one will believe was ever on Broadway and b) isn't actually a fucking costume at all. "Okay."

"It was a very political play, you know, tackling the issues of the day," Ferguson informs him. "Zonker was always very free thinking. I identify with him."

"Right. I didn't know Halloween was a lifestyle campaign." From what he remembers of the comic, Zonker was largely a freeloading lazy ass who thought his pot plant spoke to him. He pats the asshole's shoulder and drains his glass, feeling eyes on him as a couple of the other people in the group turn away. He starts thinking he needs another cup before he really tells Ferguson out loud how full of shit he is.

"Zach's costume is very apropos, don't you think?" Ferguson says next, either oblivious to Chris' low dig or hitting right back in the most irritating way. Chris doesn't want to give him the benefit of the doubt of having intelligence for the latter. He clenches his teeth so hard the nerves in his molars spike down his jaw.

"Sure."

"He's so enthusiastic," Ferguson smiles rather cloyingly at the man in question.

"About what?" Chris ventures.

Ferguson turns back to him, eyes twinkling like he knows a secret, and he reaches out to rub Chris' bicep in his overly friendly way. "Oh, you know, just _everything_. I just love him."

What the fuck ever. Chris turns away, back to the kitchen to dip up more of the sangria, indulging in a fantasy of gagging the guy with that ugly flannel shirt to shut him up. 

Joe wanders in dejectedly, refilling his beer.

"Fun party," Chris offers. "Did you get Christine's number, or did she see the horror under the mask?" He asks with a smirk, remembering the cute girl Joe had pursued.

Joe grunts ambiguously and gulps from his cup, wiping foam from his scruff. "I don't see you looking at any of the Tinkerbells here, Captain Hook."

Chris shakes his head, picking at a nearly empty bowl of chips. "I'm not in the market."

"No? Fairies don't do it for you?" Joe snorts at his own joke.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Chris asks, irritated. "I'm not laughing."

"Relax," Joe huffs, "His other idea was to be Oberon. Would've involved more glitter. I'm a photographer, not a makeup artist."

"So this is about your brother," Chris shakes his head in disbelief. It always comes back around.

"When is it not about my brother when it comes to you?" Joe puts his cup down, standing up straighter and glaring. "You've certainly been eyeing him up all night."

"You make a lot of assumptions," Chris puts down his own drink and crosses his arms.

Joe shakes his head with a humorless smirk. "Look, I know your type. Prettyboy wants a blind boyfriend so it gets you all the attention in the world—"

"Whoa whoa whoa, dude," Chris holds up his hands, "It's not like that. At all."

"Yeah?" Joe steps in closer, threatening, "What's it like?"

Chris glances back through the kitchen archway at Zach, watching him singing along to the music with Zoe and a few others, seeing the way people watch him, the uniqueness of his mannerisms and humble modesty that comes from being completely unaware of how fucking magnetic he is, how he draws every gaze in the room. Chris doesn't want to occupy his spotlight, he just wants a seat saved at the performance. He shrugs, "It's like I'm his friend."

"It's like you want his ass," counters Joe, cold and deadly quiet at his ear.

Chris growls a noise of dissent, before stalking off out the back door, Joe right on his heels. Once the screen bounces on its hinges, he turns around and gets right up in Joe's face. "Look, I am your brother's friend whether you like it or not, alright? And I don't know about you, but I watch my friends' back at a party, and that's whether they're blind, deaf, gay, straight, bi, or even just hotheaded and socially inept like you. This convoluted idea you have that I'm out to get your brother is fucking ridiculous."

"And you might be so far in the closet you can see Narnia from here, but I still see the way you look at him," Joe uses the few inches he's got on Chris to loom over him.

"I'm not—fuck," Chris clenches his fists, huffing out an angry breath and stepping away to avoid the desire to actually hit him. He can't lie about this, not to Joe. He lowers his voice, "I'm not in the closet, okay? I like women. I just… I've liked guys too." Chris scrubs his face, watching people move in the bright windows of the house. "It's been a long time. I thought I was over it."

Joe glares at him another several seconds in the dim cool of the John's backyard. "Are you over it?"

Chris tosses the pirate hat to John's patio table to push his hand through his hair and exhales heavily, "Even if I wasn't, I… Jesus, what the fuck is with you, man? Why are you so convinced I have some horrible agenda?"

"Why not? You'd be just like all the rest. Worse, even, if this is an experiment for you."

"Please, asshole," Chris shoots him a glare. "Let's be adults for a minute. I know what I like. I know who I like. Right now, I don't like you very much."

"I don't know your intentions towards my brother," Joe says, "But if you hurt him in any way, it's me you're gonna answer to."

"Yeah, I'm fucking quaking in my boots right now. Zach's my friend, before anything else," Chris repeats. "If you need character references on my sense of loyalty when it comes to that, just ask around."

Joe shakes his head disbelievingly, "So, you'd have his back if he was in trouble."

"I already have," he retorts immediately, "I always will. Do you really think I haven't thought about all this? Wouldn't I have made a move already if all I wanted was his ass?"

"Ah, so, you're afraid to start anything, knowing you're bound to screw it up."

"No!" Chris blusters, considering how close that is to the truth. "I… We're already good, you know? As friends, we're great."

"Then you're holding back even though you obviously want to jump him. It's all for my brother's honor," Joe snorts. "What are you, Prince Charming?"

"Sure, whatever. What, do I need your permission?" Chris smirks and strikes a theatrical bow, "O! Lord Quinto, I seek to ask thy blessing that I may court thy fair brother. In lieu of thy beloved father's imprimatur, I come to you." He drops the accent to a fit of giggles.

Joe blinks in astonishment, but then the uncovered thick eyebrow quirks and he cracks a smile, "Well shit, that's actually kind of romantic. Imprimatur?"

"Berkeley English department, at your service," Chris says.

"Fuck," Joe brightens, gesturing to himself, "Indiana U, man."

"Jesus H Christ," Chris laughs, scrubbing his face and chewing his lip for a moment. "I dunno. It's been, what… six months? And you've hated me from day one for no reason. Why?"

Joe kicks at a clod of grass into the window well and sighs, silent for long moments. "Zach's had a target on his back ever since we were little."

"What, being bullied?" Chris asks for clarification. "For being being gay or a dorky drama nerd or what?"

"All that."

"Well, newsflash, buddy, so was the rest of the bookstore brigade in there. Every one of us took shit from people, none of us was ever Mr. Popular in school. Certainly not me."

Joe shrugs, pulling out a pack of smokes from somewhere and lighting one, "He's my kid brother, man, I can't not eyeball people who show an interest."

"Well, I don't see you side-eyeing Zoe or John, or that prick Ferguson in there," Chris counters sourly.

"His masseuse?" Joe shakes his head, "Man, I hate that guy."

"It's not just me, right?" Chris exclaims, spreading his arms, "It's not! Guy's a boner."

Joe laughs and nods in agreement, sucking on his smoke. "I'm not just talking social circles or friends. Guys he's been with, too," he exhales a stream of smoke, tossing him another dark glance, "You know, his last boyfriend in New York stole all his electronics when he took off? Idiot put everything on Ebay, it wasn't hard to track him down and press charges, but still."

"Now why would I do that?" Chris asks, "If I was going to steal from him, would I stick around? Boy, it'd be hard to find me, I only live across the street."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Joe just shakes his head again. "Zach is very easy to take advantage of. He trusts people far too quickly. He'll tell you he has to, but I call that bullshit. And everyone loves him, I get it. He's easy to love, he's a sweetheart and people are drawn to him because of it. There've been plenty of guys who fall for him that way. But to a point, up until he's a burden. He's high maintenance, always has been, and not just because he can't see. One day you'll wake up and figure out you're sick of being a guide dog. The novelty wears off."

"It's not a fucking novelty," Chris grumbles, feeling Joe's piercing eyes on him and looking back hotly. "It's not. Maybe it's the first thing people notice—and yeah, it's the first thing I noticed—but it's not all there is." He sees Zach through the kitchen windows, shrugging off the help of some girl and filling his own cup from the punch bowl. Chris smiles to see him assert that independence. "He'd be fascinating without it, you know. You've known him forever, so maybe your perspective is different."

"I'm sick of seeing him get hurt, that's all," Joe relents, grinding the cigarette out in the ashtray on the table for a minute before he mutters, "So he's fascinating, huh?"

Chris bites his lip, feeling himself blush in the dark, taking a deep breath. Yeah, Zach's fascinating. Enchanting. Intelligent and kind and funny as hell. And really, maddeningly sexy.

"Look. I like Zach. A lot. And I don't really know what I'm doing, but—"

"Chris?" Zach's voice calls from the doorway. He pushes the screen door open with a drink in hand and cane hooked over his elbow, stumbling slightly down the half step to the ground, then calling back through the door, "Hey, did someone say he was outside?"

"He's out here," Joe calls, and turns to Chris, swiftly muttering under his breath, "Just remember what I told you."

Zach narrows his eyes at the sound of his brother approaching, "What were you doing?"

"Nothing," Joe says, slapping Zach's shoulder on his way to the door, "Having a smoke, shootin' the shit."

In high school, Chris' first girlfriend's father had threatened his balls with a plumber's wrench the night he took her to the prom, and yet he still had a matched pair even after that went south. If he doesn't know any better, that's about as close to _permission granted_ as he's going to get out of Joe. It sends an electric thrill down his spine as Joe goes back in the house.

Meanwhile, Zach slowly scans the yard with his ears, "Where are you?" He grins with his tongue flirtily between his teeth, covering his eyes with his free hand and parting his fingers as if to peek through, "Marco!"

Chris snickers, "Polo."

Zach takes another few steps over the grass toward his voice, suspender buckles clinking around his knees. "Marco!"

Striding quietly backwards and to the side, Chris grins, "Polo."

Zach turns and follows, and Chris shuffles farther back in the little yard, beyond the little plastic jungle gym and swing set. The soft boots let him sneak around pretty lightly, underneath the party noise leaking out of the house and the constant city noise providing him a little cover. Zach laughs and takes a gulp of his drink, holding his cane out and turning a wide circle with it. "No fair. Marco."

"Polo," Chris whispers from right behind him.

Zach jumps and swings around, giggling. Chris catches his hand with the drink before it spills. 

"Go easy on this stuff," he says, "It's strong."

"Pssh, I've only had two," Zach slurs airily, tipping it in Chris' hand to gulp. His bottom lip brushes Chris' thumb, and the bowtie hops as he swallows. "And a half."

"Two is enough. You had cider too," Chris reminds him. Zach has a purplish smear of lipstick on one cheek and another two of different shades on his left shoulder. His skin is pale in the moonlight, the eyeliner bleeding slightly at the edges, and his chest hair is glistening with glitter or sweat, maybe both. His nipples are hard, pebbled up in the cool night air. Chris darts his tongue across his lips. "Aren't you cold?"

"Oh my god, no, I'm so hot right now," Zach breathes, stumbling over something in the grass. Chris catches him by the arm, warm and sinewy. "Feels great out here."

"You're drunk, Zachary," he informs him, taking a gulp of the sangria himself as Zach reaches out for it, missing completely and grabbing a handful of Chris' coat.

"'Am not, Christopher."

"Are so."

"Nope," Zach leans heavily into him, giggling into an epaulette. "You smell weird," he mutters against his shoulder and shivers against him, unconsciously seeking warmth.

"Thanks," Chris snorts, catching a whiff of Zach's neck and hair just inches from his own nose. He closes his eyes and thinks, _you smell amazing._ His hand fits against the small of Zach's back, over suspender straps and lightly clammy gooseflesh beneath.

If Zach were a girl, he'd take his coat off and put it around him in a heartbeat, an intrinsically romantic gesture ingrained into him by countless authors, movies, and his mother as the gentlemanly thing to do, that would speak to his intentions and shit, if he could get them all into a row in the first place. And if he were more drunk, he wouldn't even bother thinking about it, he'd just do it, and kiss Zach, and 'fess up to this. It could be so fucking easy if it weren't so fucking hard.

A witch, Evita and two Mormons clatter out the door, flames popping little firefly embers as they light up cigarettes around the side of the house, voices blurring and laughing together.

Chris squeezes Zach lightly. "Let's go in."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not drunk enough."

"Mmhmhm," Zach giggles, arms circling Chris' waist under the frock coat as he mumbles against his neck, smiling lips brushing his skin. "Drunk enough for what?"

"Zach," Chris squeezes his eyes shut and reluctantly pulls out of his embrace, because he really isn't drunk enough, not for this, and not with an audience, and not in John's backyard beside his kids' jungle gym. The cane gets jostled to the ground as Chris unwinds Zach's arms. He stoops to grab it, hooking it into Zach's criss-crossed suspenders and tugging him just lightly back toward the house. "Polo. Come on, Herr Emcee."

Zach snorts. "Herr Herr? Technically. Mr. Master. Or like—Hey, don't stretch them out."

"Inside," Chris pulls, carefully walking backwards to the screen door.

He releases Zach to a group of chatty girls in the dining room, because he can't be close to him right now, not in this shape, and not with that fucking costume, it's too much _Zach_. He goes to the kitchen, dips up more of the sangria. 

The thing is—since Disneyland, since Zach was gone, since that day at the beach, since _Jason_ —Chris knows he's been lying to himself in order to maintain this good, safe little insular world he's been living in.

A lot of his life is safe. His neighborhood is safe. His bank account, with a reasonable but not exorbitant pillow left there in trusts set up when his Dad was a big tv star, that was safe. Not following in Dad's footsteps despite expectations and a love of good film, that was safe. The Lit degree, the idea of being a teacher: safe. The string of women, all of whom he did love in their own ways, they all fit a profile with the exception of one or two; that expected, marriage material girl he'd been coded to believe was what guys like him were supposed to take home to Mom and Dad. They were safe.

The thing is, nothing about Zach ever feels as dangerous in reality as it does in Chris' head. Chris is the one who feels dangerous. 

The party spins around him, walking into and out of conversations, drinking more sangria, eating more candy. The music gets louder, the people get more rowdy. He loses track of time. His headspace is reduced to losing Zach in the crowd and finding him again, watching him from afar as he gesticulates and smiles and people bring him drinks and kiss his cheeks, sometimes his lips. Zach kisses back, and he's smiley and sexy and perfect. He's popular, like Joe said, but no matter how often he's touched, danced with, spoon-fed, no one seems to have claim on him.

But Zach had said it, hadn't he? _You're my favorite_. Like a planted flag. Chris remembers with a hot coal of want in his stomach that Zach likes to have every possible version of favorites.

When Chris finds him again with Ferguson's hands working his bare shoulders as Zach chatters to someone else, still Chris' guts roil with rage, jealousy, _mine_.

When he sees him stumble away from those grabby hands, he pounces without a thought before anyone else takes hold, and even though he knows Zach hates being dragged around, Chris pushes him down the dark, black-lit hall. Zach's steps are heavy, boots flopping compliantly along; he's had a lot to drink. "M'kay," he slurs with a grin.

Once around a corner and out of view, Chris crowds him against the wall, high off his own lust and pounding adrenaline and the smell, that haunting smell he could swear has seeped into his own pores, Zach's smell.

Zach giggles, a hand lifting to touch the velvet and fluff of Chris' costume. His fingers stroke the velveteen of his hip, sliding up to his chest where his heart is pounding. Zach's mouth opens, lips plush, teeth flashing behind them, wine stained as the corners of his lips curl up, wet tongue teasing in between. "Interesting," he murmurs, "The silent type."

Chris sighs and leans into him, chest to knee, nose dragging across his stubbled cheek. That clean, pure smell of him this close is intoxicating, the way his breath hitches and his hips tilt minutely under Chris', leather creaking with friction. All he can do is push his hand into the hair at the back of Zach's head, cover those lips with his own and groan low at the taste: sangria, candy and Zach.

The cane clatters to the floor as Zach gasps and his fingers dig into Chris' shirt. He moans when Chris' teeth clamp around his lower lip and suck, hands scrambling to cling against him and opening his mouth for Chris to plunder until neither of them can breathe, and jesus, the sounds he makes, the moans and whimpers and arching of his lithe body—

When Chris finally pulls away, panting against his mouth, Zach's face is raw and open lust. He whispers in the hot air between them, almost to himself, "God, who is this?"

 _He doesn't know_.

Chris panics. Zach doesn't know it's him. He's drunk enough that his senses aren't all the way on and sharp as a razor as usual. Chris doesn't feel like himself in this costume, certainly doesn't smell like himself. Even though he knows he shouldn't take advantage, in an instant, Chris sees his retreat.

He backs off, leaves Zach propped there against the hallway wall and bolts, without even picking up the cane for him, because he knows even that little bit of compassion would give him away. He's out the door and gulping the cold October air, stumbling down the street as his pores are practically oozing alcohol, falling through the layers of sobering up.

Chris is a goddamned coward of the highest caliber.


	11. Chapter 11

Chris wakes up in the morning on his bathroom floor, moaning pitifully after another round of puking, mouth tasting like candied death. His eyes are throbbing tennis balls in his head, and his brain is a fiery clusterfuck of jackhammers, going off at every tiny movement. He smells like he swam in sangria as he rolls over, glancing down at the velveteen pants and single half-laced boot he's still wearing of the pirate costume. All he wants is to curl up and have his mommy rub his head like she did after he fell off his skateboard when he was seven. Fuck John Cho, seriously.

After a minute of pretending not to be alive because being dead would hurt less, he gives up, slowly tugs off the rest of his clothes and yanks on the shower. He stands under it for probably an hour, leaning against the tile until the water starts to go cold before he grabs the soap and toothpaste and does a cursory wash. He barely remembers to pop some aspirin and drink something before he collapses in his bed and curls up under the covers for another few hours.

The next time he comes to, he still feels pretty rough. His stomach is still really iffy, but the headache has abated to a more or less bearable level, and he can at least think a little bit.

He hardly remembers most of the party. Bits and pieces float back in here and there, pointless conversation, snippets of songs, Cho shoving the first glass of that vile drink on him. He doesn't remember how many of them he had, but supposes he should be grateful he still had pants on this morning.

Pants. He remembers Zach in those fucking leather pants, looking like he either walked off a burlesque stage or belonged in a cage in a gay club, and his laugh, his smell, his voice, singing along with the music, talking to Chris in that low, smoky tone: _I'm so hot right now. You're my favorite. Drunk enough for what?_

It slams back into his brain with a vivid, agonizing clarity that makes him groan. He kissed Zach. He kissed Zach and it was amazing.

He kissed Zach and it was _awful_.

"Fuuuuuck," he breathes, covering his eyes, Zach's stunned face in the dark, words wavering into his memory. _God, who is this?_

Zach didn't know it was him. He was easily as drunk as Chris was, if not more, who knows how much he'd had to drink before Chris got there? What if he came to his senses? What if someone saw them in the hall? How did he get home? Did he even get home? Is he okay?

Chris sits up quickly, and then freezes with a whimper at how much that hurts. Much more slowly, he stumbles his way through his apartment, seeking pieces of the costume until he finds the coat, strewn by the door, finding his phone in the pocket.

There are three texts, two from Zoe last night, first: _Hey are you still here?_ And then: _Where the fuck are you?_ The last is from early this morning, from John: _Glad you didn't drive, but you need to get your car before the street sweepers come Monday. And this hat, tho I might keep it, Captain._

Dragging himself to the couch, he sits, concentrating on not puking again. He can only hope someone reasonably sober took Zach home, or Cho put him up on his couch, or something. John never drinks at his party, and he always has a number of DD's and cab services lined up. Joe was there, too, so there's no way Zach wasn't looked after, right? But what if Zach remembers that kiss? What if he told Joe? Jesus. Chris' ass is going to be pulverized if Joe finds out.

He eventually gets up the nerve to send as innocuous a text as he can possibly come up with on limited brainpower. _You okay, buddy?_

Half an hour passes in muted, fuzzy-minded worry before he gets a response. _I hate John Cho._

Laughing makes his head hurt like hell, but a wave of relief pulses through him. Zach's okay. He's probably feeling like the same kind of roadkill as Chris right now, but he's okay. At least enough to compose a sentiment echoing throughout the whole neighborhood about now.

The phone suddenly rings in his hand, the tone drilling painfully through his ear as he slaps at it to either turn it the fuck off or answer, either is preferable to that noise.

"Yeah?"

"Oh god, Noah shit in the house."

Chris groans. Zach sounds as rough as he does, voice ragged and breathing stilted. He makes a sniffing sound and then one of complete revulsion. 

"Chris?" he stutters, "I can't… I don't know where it is."

"Kay," Chris sighs, scrubbing his face. "Okay, gimme a minute."

He hangs up, staying where he is on the sofa for another minute before he forces himself upright. He futzes for a second, trying to get his brain in order. He goes to look under his sink for something to clean with in case Zach doesn't have anything, opens and quickly shuts his front door with a curse, and takes another few minutes to find sunglasses and a baseball cap before he heads out into the infernal spiking hell that is the afternoon sunlight across the street.

Unlocking Zach's door with his key, he's hit with the smell of crap, of course, worse considering his own nauseated physical state. He has to side-step the mess in order to enter. Noah slinks away, forgoing his usual well-met enthusiasm to hang his head and look thoroughly ashamed of himself. Harold sits on the back of the sofa switching his tail, looking quite disgusted with this whole state of affairs as well.

"Chris?" Zach calls, appearing hesitantly at the bedroom doorframe down the hall. He's still wearing those damn pants.

"Yeah," he answers, "It's, uh… by the front door. I'll get it."

Chris has known Zach long enough to know he has a rather unusual but justified set of fears. Deep snow. Open-backed stairs. Forests. Traveling. Stepping in dog shit is fairly high on this list. Despite his impulse problems outside the house, Noah is remarkably well house-trained for a rescue dog. Zach had told him of his early days of dog ownership and the mishaps they'd had along the way, one of which was learning how long a dog can be expected to hold it.

"It's my fault," Zach comes down the hall a little farther, scrubbing at his hair before he wraps his arms around his bare torso uncomfortably. "I was so sick, I didn't get up to take him out, and I'm sure he just couldn't wait anymore. I'm so sorry to make you do this."

"Yeah, no, it's… not a big deal," Chris says, stomach turning as he quickly grabs for a poop bag to deal with it and put it out the door on the step before he goes to work on the carpet, which is luckily not too bad. Zach has a cleaning service come in twice a month, surely if there's more to be done, they'll do it.

"Okay, it's all gone." He gives a cursory look around the main room and grabs Noah's leash, the dog springing up and sitting at his feet with vibrating urgency. "I don't see anything else. He has to pee though, I'll take him out."

Once Noah's done his business and he throws everything in the trash bins outside, he heads back in to find Zach sprawled on his sofa, looking a lot like a rockstar after a serious bender, entirely out of place with his usual fastidiousness. The multiple suspenders, boots and bowtie are gone, just those long ass legs still wrapped in leather. His chest hair is still sparkly, and Zoe's eyeliner job is now smeared around most of his eye sockets and into his hands where he's been scrubbing them to bloodshot oblivion. His hair is a chunky, oily mess, jaw sprouting what would be two day's growth on Chris, but is just about eighteen hours worth on Zach.

"You look like shit, dude," he says. Zach graces that with a scrunched face and an upheld middle finger that makes Chris hitch a laugh and amend, "You look how I feel. I've been puking my guts up all morning."

"You too?" Zach lifts a hand to scratch at his chest. "I'm never drinking that much again. Ever. Sobriety is underrated."

"Yeah," Chris rolls himself up, hugging his own knees as he rests the side of his head and body against the backrest, facing Zach. His next question falls from his mouth before he can think it through, "Do you remember anything?"

Zach rubs at his eyes again, "Not really. I remember up to karaoke, or something. There was singing. Someone did 'Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee'."

Chris snorts, "I think that was you."

"Really?" Zach gives half an attempt at a bashful laugh. "I hope I worked it."

The answer seems sincere enough, but it still makes Chris' stomach clinch with something other than nausea. Zach doesn't remember that kiss, and it makes him an even bigger asshole for taking advantage.

He reaches over and pokes Zach in the shoulder, where there are still smears of lipstick. "You should go shower. You'll feel better. Those pants have to be chafing by now."

"Oh god, you don't even know. My balls are practically raw," Zach mutters, obscenely trying to grab and pull the leather crotch away from pertinent areas. Chris hopes he doesn't need help getting them off. He pokes again. "Go on."

"Fuck you, I'm going," Zach grouses, though he doesn't move, head falling back on the cushion. "In a minute."

Laughing softly, Chris remains curled up, breathing through his own physical and mental agony. He kissed Zach and Zach doesn't remember, didn't even know it was him in the first place. It's not a blessing or a curse, it's something indefinably more horrendous.

After several minutes, Zach finally rolls himself up to the edge of the sofa with a pained groan, slowly stands and makes his way down the hall, hands reaching for more of his guiding points than usual. Chris risks lifting his head to watch his ass in those pants one last time, like the lech he is.

 

_He looks down at his hand, fingers laced with another's as they walk through a sort of misty woodsy scenery. He looks up to his left and finds Zach smiling back. There is sunlight on his face, despite the clouds all around. Noah gambols free through the trees and wisps of fog, Harold trotting along beside him._

_Zach is gorgeous, laughing as he watches the dog snap at fireflies. "Come on," he says to Chris, taking both his hands and walking backwards, his eyes shining with his happy, trusting smile._

_Everything here is beautiful, but Chris feels an odd fear as the evening falls to dark. "Where are we going?"_

_Laughing, Zach tilts his head and floats close, raising a hand to brush Chris' cheek as he says against his lips, "Disneyland, silly." His eyes are fiery embers up close, darting between his own, "But we have to hurry."_

_Noah barks gleefully, echoing in the distance, and Chris stops, dread filling him. He feels like his body is stuck in quicksand. "I can't move."_

_"Chris, we're almost there," Zach cups his face in his hands, his eyes so deep and bright, his voice soft and velvety and imploring, "We're so close. Come with me."_

_Noah makes a plaintive noise, bumping his elbow with his nose. He looks down at the dog's happy, beardy face._

He whines again, and Chris opens a squinty eye to Noah licking his elbow, wagging when he sees Chris is awake, and rests his chin on the couch cushion. Chris lifts his hand from Zach's arm to pet the dog's scruffy head.

Wait.

He looks down to the coffee-colored swath of soft hair spread over his own chest. Zach is wedged between Chris' body and the back of the couch, his shoulder tucked into Chris' armpit, free arm thrown across Chris' ribs, their legs an awkward tangle of thighs and knees. Chris can feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his sleeping breath against his side. It can't possibly stay that way for long with Chris' heart starting to hammer against his ear, though.

Vaguely, he remembers being jostled from a doze as Zach had returned from his shower, damp and dressed again in a t-shirt and loose grey sweats to plunk down on the sofa beside him once again, folding himself up on its other end. He doesn't remember any chain of events that had them eventually stretching out and snuggling up together like this. The light outside says it's late afternoon, nearly evening. His head still hurts a little, his stomach making cautiously hungry rumbles and he has to pee, but fuck if he's going to move now.

Noah whimpers again, poking his wet nose under Zach's hand now, and the man stirs with what is probably the most adorable snuffly nuzzle into Chris' shirt. He inhales deeply, and then goes totally still.

He lifts his head, hair a tumbling beautiful mess as his face reads unfocused confusion, almost close enough to kiss. "Chris?"

"Mmmhm."

"Shit, sorry," Zach pushes a hand through his hair and shifts awkwardly up and off, trying to disentangle them with a haste that shoves Chris' legs off the couch. "I didn't mean to, uh, fall asleep on you."

"It's okay," Chis mutters, sitting up himself, heart squeezing at the way Zach so clearly wants to get out of this situation. "Um, Noah wants to go out. Want me to—?"

"No," Zach scrubs at his now clean but still scruffy, muddled and embarrassed face, stumbling off the couch. "No, I'll take him."

"Zach," Chris says to halt him, licking his lips and trying to come up with something to say to counter this awkwardness, something to put all this right. He's got nothing, his brain doesn't want to work and his stomach wants food. "Wanna go to the diner? I need a big greasy burrito to kill the rest of this hangover."

Clipping the leash on Noah, Zach straightens, pushing his hair back. If he has something else to say, he hides it behind a nod and a tired smile, "Sure, okay."

 

Almost a week later, when Zoe arrives for her shift giving everyone the stomping, glaring, slamming-of-objects, silent treatment, Chris and Anton both elect to tiptoe accordingly. She might be a ballerina of a woman, but one does not get on the wrong side of her when she's pissed off about something unless they want a verbal emasculation with the imminent threat of a physical one.

Chris goes through the end-of-the-week orders, the whole time privy to Zoe's annoyed huffs and nails pounding the register keys like talons. The third or fourth time she hip-checks him out of her way, he starts to wonder if maybe it's him she's mad at. Hell, he hasn't done anything he can think of, at least not to her.

It's taken at least two full days before anybody has recovered entirely from John's party, except John himself, of course, full of high spirits and a total lack of remorse. Chris has fallen more or less back into his routine, with the week pretty busy in terms of his coursework, to a point that he's avoided Zach's invites to work at his house or go to the gym. It isn't necessarily out of shame, though that has something to do with it. He just can't concentrate. If it was a problem before, it's amplified by about a million now, with the clear knowledge of what Zach's body feels like against him, how his lips feel and taste, hearing his sounds, even just being around him, watching him move. It isn't just the way he'd danced at that party in those fucking pants. There are echoes of that sensuality in the tiniest everyday motions he makes: pushing his hands through his hair, the drape of his legs over his desk chair, the way he bumps the refrigerator door closed with his hip. Chris can't deal with it, on nearly every level anymore. And yet, he can't not want to be around him either, when there is no escape.

When Zach shows up, setting the bell tinkling with the chess set tucked under his arm, Chris' world narrows and centers, the tunnel vision of having Zach in his proximity once again.

"Hey baby!" Zoe calls, sweeping around the counter to give him a hug.

He kisses her cheek, calling out through the shop, "Alright, Cheesewhiz, this is gonna be the day."

The chess board is set and the pieces begin their war, Zach folded half-lotus style in front of the kids' table with Anton perched on a undersized chair opposite. Chris switches to the children's section order form so he can watch, offering encouragement and getting roundly excused of favoritism while he obsesses a little over the freshly trimmed hairline at the back of Zach's neck, the silky tumble of the length on the top and the way it feathers on the sides. Thirty seconds awake on Zach's sofa and it had filled his spank bank with a hundred things, starting with just the top of his head.

Zoe shoves him into a shelf on her way from the storeroom back to the front desk, breaking his gaze and doing absolutely nothing to hide the bitch mode in her expression.

"Checkmate," Anton says smugly.

"No, this is not checkmate."

"It is. Outside passed pawn," Anton says, knocking down Zach's king and slapping his shoulder as he gets up from the table, "Owned you again."

"This is not…" Zach pounds his fist on the table, proceeding to feel where the few remained pieces are on the board, muttering, "Effing checkmate."

He starts to gather the pieces up, and Chris grabs a rook that had fallen to the carpet and lightly touches Zach's shoulder with it. Zach starts a little, the way he sometimes does at any unexpected contact, but it's with an air of more caution than ever before. The sort that's been hanging around them since the day after the party. He doesn't even have to speak and Zach knows it's him nearby. Unlike at the party, when he hadn't known who he was at all.

"Thanks," Zach says, taking the piece and fitting it into its place in the box as Chris heads back to the front desk to plug in the temperamental old fax machine, grumbling about why their ordering system has yet to enter the 21st century. Zoe merely ignores him to exchange pleasantries and shopping plans for the weekend with Zach once he makes his way to the counter. John arrives for his shift, setting down his heavy bag of schoolwork behind the counter. "Zach, my man! How's it going?" 

Narrowing his eyes in John's direction, Zach says, "I don't like you anymore. You make no good, very bad drinks."

"Hey, I don't make anybody drink them in excess," Cho shrugs, widening his arms with a grin, "Moderation is key."

"Moderation my ass," Zoe breathes. Evidently she's throwing John some shade as well.

Zach hesitates at the counter, fingers playing with the tassels on rack of bookmarks. "Um," he starts, "So, do you want to do a movie night? When you're off?"

He's not looking in Chris' particular direction, but he clearly knows he's right there. "Tonight?" Chris asks.

When Zach nods, looking both hopeful and wary, Chris stutters, "Uh. You know, I have a test essay sort of thing I'm supposed to turn in by tomorrow, so I probably should, uh—"

"Oh, okay," Zach accepts the excuse as swiftly as he has the rest, "Raincheck, then." He offers a too bright smile and a hand. 

"Yeah," Chris says, taking up their usual handshake, lamenting the loss of the hug at the end that the counter between them prevents. "Yeah. I mean I have a lot to get done right now. This week. End. This weekend. But soon. Sometime."

Zach leaves swiftly, cane unfolding as he's out the door, and with him goes the brightness in the shop, Chris' eyes following him through the windows until he's out of sight.

Zoe levels Chris with the most withering look he's received today, arms crossed and eyes cutting like razors.

"What!?" he finally says, taking a quick glance around to be sure there aren't any customers, "Jesus, you've been up my ass all day."

Zoe looks over her shoulder at John, settling into his grading, and leans over to half-whisper, "Are you really this big of an idiot or do you actually not recognize a come-on when you're hit with one?"

"What?" he whispers back, shooting a glance behind him at Anton, heading up the spiral stairs.

"He just asked you out, plebe," she says scathingly.

Chris shakes his head, "That wasn't asking me out. We do movie nights all the time. And I wasn't making an excuse, I have shit I need to get done. If I don't get it done before the holidays I'll have to wait another six months—"

"Bullshit," she blows that off. "Jesus, I know he likes you, I don't understand why you can't just get it together. You two are being weird around each other, don't think I don't notice."

Chris grits his teeth, leaning close to mutter, "You told me you wouldn't fucking say anything to him! Dammit Zoe."

"What makes you think I said anything to him? This is Mama Intuition connecting the dots. Trust me, I'd love to say something, since you obviously don't have any cojones to speak of," she hisses back, "Never mind what he said happened at the party."

Stilling, Chris darts his tongue over his lips, playing dumb, "Something happened?"

Zoe throws another glance back over her shoulder at John, turning back with eyes that are black and hard, "He told me someone kissed him."

So he eventually did remember. Shit. Chris quickly plays it off, "I dunno if you noticed, but everyone kissed him that night. Including you."

"And how about you, Chris? Did you?" she spikes through his argument, barely waiting for an answer she doesn't get. "He told me somebody dragged him off and practically tongue-fucked him out of his mind, and then they were just gone. He said he couldn't remember much, but he remembered _that_. He said he didn't know who it was. And then he said he couldn't find you afterward. No one could, Chris, because you bounced. You left him there."

"I got shitfaced and walked home. I wasn't in any shape to drive him anywhere," Chris retorts, "Anyway, I'm not his fucking keeper, okay? His brother was there, you were there, it's not like he had nobody else who gave a shit."

"I took him home, in case either of you were wondering," John pipes up from his grading. "He's a supremely cuddly drunk. And also a pretty good kisser."

Zoe roundly ignores John, "Uh huh, and before that, when you were shitfaced, did you drag Zach into a hallway like the caveman I assume you are, kiss the shit out of him and then take off?" she asks. "Because that was a douche move."

"Oh, I'm automatically the prime suspect?" Chris argues feverishly. "He's a popular guy. Could've been anyone. Could've been fucking Ferguson."

His vitriol gets Zoe to balk, eyebrows shooting for her hairline, "Fergus—what?"

Chris exhales hard, vicious ragey contempt coiling like a spring in his gut, "That asshole is always over at his place every week, rubbing him down, coming to parties, all handsy all over him, all the time. What the fuck am I supposed to think?"

Zoe laughs hard, her mouth wide and teeth flashing. "I dunno, that he's a masseuse?" She keeps cackling at him, head tipping back and her hand covering her mouth.

"What?!" Chris yells, and John huffs at both of them, throwing his pen down and shutting the folder on a stack of ungraded papers.

"Chris, you know Ferguson proposed to Angelica from the company, right?" Zoe says. "They've been together for like two years."

He blinks, confused. "Huh?"

"Aw, baby, were you jealous?" she keeps giggling, "He had his hands all up on your man, and you couldn't deal."

"Shut up!" he splutters back, cheeks flaming. "You kissed—?" He rounds on John, pointing at him wildly, "John kissed him. Could've been John. Apparently John couldn't fucking help himself."

"Mmm, there was the issue of him talking about you non-stop as I dragged his heavy ass to his bed, though," John says, striding up to lean back against the counter between them. "We aren't going to tell my wife about the kissing, she'd think it's hot."

Zoe finally curbs her mirth and looks up at Cho, "Wait, how long have you known about this?"

"Oh, you have _no idea_ ," John shakes his head, smiling knowingly at Chris, who's trying to scrub the fuchsia off his face. "Hey, what was that guy's name? From UCLA?"

"Can we not discuss my past digressions at work, please?" Chris moans, "Or current ones?"

"Jason. That was it," Cho points at him like he's selecting him for The Price Is Right to come on down, "He was really something. Could talk Mother Theresa into running a whorehouse, that guy."

Zoe lights up, keenly interested, "Oh yeah?"

"Mm," John's face cracks slyly, "Namely, he could talk Chris into anything. Janitor's closets, ladies rooms, the back of the UCLA bus, the dark room of the photography department, Mr. Haverly's private office—"

"Oh my god," Zoe snorts, covering her mouth with a look in his direction.

"Nnrgk, stop it," Chris whines.

"Maybe you should just tell him."

All three of them look up to find Anton standing at the railing on the upper loft. He shows both his palms in placation and then plants them on the wrought iron, cocking a hip. "You like him. He likes you. That much has been obvious to everyone for, like, months," Anton says matter-of-factly. "Well, anyone with eyes that work, anyway. Your strategy is flawed."

Chris' brain hiccups over the idea that it's fucking _Anton_ telling him this. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Anton shrugs, picking up the broken-down cardboard boxes and jogging down the spiral stairs. "If the side with the advantage doesn't make an aggressive move, the game will just be a draw."

"Still making no sense."

Anton puts the boxes down, pats Chris on the cheek and says, "Ease up on your defense. Sometimes that's the risk you have to take. Strategy, Chris."

Chris shakes his head, stuttering as he backs up from this smiley little shit. "Just… just go shelve like a good little shelf boy, okay?" He turns him and gives him a shove in the ass with his foot to send him off. "Jesus, I think that kid shits chess pieces."

Zoe snorts. "Probably."

Chris head spins. What the fuck just happened here? Scrubbing his eyes, he plants himself face down over the checkout counter with a groan. The wood is cool against his forehead. He grips the opposite edge with his fingers and feels the intricacies of the old carving, the way Zach always does.

"He is a really good kisser," John puts in once again.

"Yes, thank you, John, I am now torturously aware."

"He slapped me across the face, afterward," John muses, and Chris cracks an eye up at him, "He told me my line was, 'Well, that makes it necessary for me to drop back again'. And then he quoted something about the Bible and started snoring, so I don't even know."

Chris snorts a laugh. "Some Sky Masterson you are. Your fucking sangria. I thought the State of California outlawed that shit."

"They've never traced its origins," Cho drawls smugly. 

Zoe gives a long-suffering sigh between them, pulling down her coat and scarf and tugging on Chris' shirt tail. "Come on, loverboy. Walk me out."

Chris gathers his things and follows her to the door, mind still on overdrive. "So, like… what is this? Chris' Big Gay Intervention? Did you take out a billboard ad? Oh wait, Zach can't see it. I'm surprised you didn't rope JJ in."

"Nah," Zoe says, winding her scarf around her neck and pocketing her hands. "I think he hit the two-thirds mark on the last novel. He's put himself back on the schedule."

Chris laughs, "Great. One day after he dies, they'll publish him. The Collected Almost-Finished Works of JJ Abrams." Shaking his head, he ponders as they walk, "How the fuck did Anton know?"

"You're not exactly subtle these days in your pining, Pine," she says pointedly, "Anton gets a front row seat every Friday. The only person missing how obvious you are is Zach."

"Yeah well, that doesn't mean he returns the sentiment," he mopes.

"What if he does, though?"

"Zoe… Christ," Chris sighs, tilting his head to the sky for a minute. "You keep saying this hopeful shit like it's stone cold fact, so if you really know something—"

"I don't _know_ anything," she says, "I'm not all up in his business weaseling for info, Chris, and he's coy as hell when it comes to talking about you. You told me outright, though, so I'm gonna tell you what I see. You and him… there's _something_ there. Everyone sees it."

"Jesus. I can't believe this is my life sometimes," Chris scowls, "The last thing I want to do is take dating advice from Bobby Fischer."

"I dunno if you realize, Chris, but Anton gets a lot of ass," she shakes her head with a smirk, "That's the thing about young men, they're direct."

Chris huffs, "Yeah, they haven't been rejected enough yet. Or smacked hard enough."

"Or heartbroken," Zoe turns on her heel to face him at the bus stop, the look on her face sympathetic. "Why'd you do it?"

He closes his eyes, shaking his head. "It shouldn't have happened, not like that. I was drunk and stupid, and so was he." Chris exhales, rubbing over his blush in deference to such a stupid, boneheaded mistake. "So that's it. It's done. I fucked it up."

She frowns, "What makes you say that?"

"Shit's weird between us now, you said so yourself," he shrugs, "If he doesn't know it was me by now, I'm sure he suspects."

She raises her eyebrows and offers, "Or maybe he hopes?"

"Right. And it still makes me even more of an asshole, doesn't it? I half-expect his brother to show up around every corner, looking to bash my teeth in," he glances around quickly, flattening his hands against his hair. "I wish I had a do-over."

The bus pulls up with a hiss of brakes and Zoe shakes her head, stepping up the end of the line at the door before turning back to tell him, "Nobody ever said you don't get one."


	12. Chapter 12

Look, Chris can actually cook, okay? 

Katie was always the social butterfly who had too many friends to talk to on the phone every free minute she wasn't at school on holidays, and Dad was only good for a backyard barbecue and tended to make a mess of anything else he tried to help with in the kitchen, so it was always Chris who helped his mom prepare meals. 

He'd put in a stint in a local diner as a teenager, urged to get a job at sixteen for the experience. He always turns the television to the Food channel while doing boring housework as background noise. It makes him hungry, but hey, he's learned a couple tricks just by virtue of the information being repeated however many times by celebrity chefs. Maybe he doesn't cook for himself a whole lot out of sheer laziness and proximity to a dozen of LA's fine dining establishments, the very best of which will deliver a meatball sub at virtually any hour of the day or night. But let it be known that Chris Pine can cook a full meal if he wants to, and do it well. 

So the amount of side-eyeing he receives from his friends when he tells them all he wants to do Thanksgiving is completely unfounded. He has nowhere else to be; his parents are spending the month in the Bahamas, and it's too much of a hassle to fight the holiday traffic up half the coast to Katie. Every year this happens, he either stays home and eats whatever can be scrounged in his pantry, or he goes to the same damn diner that always remains open on holidays to cater to old people and lonely bastards. On a couple of painfully awkward occasions, he'd been invited to girlfriends' family get-togethers, only to be asked when the wedding will be. And it sucks. For once, he wants to do his own thing like a real grown-up and have it be fun.

"Look at you, doing dinner parties? You're almost there, honey," Zoe teases with an incredulous laugh, "Are you just going to put in an order at Whole Foods or what?"

John is even less forgiving, though it's in his typical jest, "Dude. I've had more than enough terrible Thanksgivings. I'm not going to swallow anything you pass off as green bean casserole and tell you it's delicious. I'll do that for my in-laws, but not you."

JJ just turns his invite right around on him, after a look that says he isn't sure whether or not Chris is fucking joking and intends to poison him and take over the bookstore himself. "Hey, yeah! Yeah, yeah, no. Would you want to come to ours instead? My wife makes a mean turkey, the kids are excited."

Anton just laughs. And laughs. "Sure, man. Sure." And laughs some more.

The only person who doesn't give him any circumventive shit is Zach. "Of course I'll come," he says with a delighted smile. "Joe's out of town again, and Mom'll have a fit if I don't have somewhere to go." He's the only one who agrees to the invitation with any degree of sincerity and confidence in Chris' abilities.

It gets him a little excited. A gathering of his closest friends—who have mostly stopped teasing in the last couple of weeks, or at least toned it down to their usual level—no big family feuds, nothing too formal. The bookstore is closed for the holiday weekend, he's done with his school stuff until he gets his results and can start applying for student teaching positions, and the rest of the year ought to breeze by. There's only one unanswered dilemma on his mind right now, and that's Zach, and the lingering weirdness between them. Maybe with all of them hanging out at his place with some good home-cooking and a little wine (but definitely not a lot), he'll be able to relax, and those stilted moments will smooth back over. Whether they'll smooth into something new he still hasn't even wrapped his brain around.

He's halfway through the morning's cooking when the texts start rolling in.

 _Grandparents pulling rank, we're going to Kerri's fam for dinner,_ John says. _Save me some real food pls, I'll pay you. Kerri's dad cooks a bird til it's cremated._

Chris wipes his hands to text back: _John The Whipped_.

The phone chimes again: _*Presents ass*_

Snorting, he goes back to his chopping. He'd suspected John would end up canceling anyway; he did say it was up to Kerri. Plus he's heard many lamentations of John's in-laws' cooking skills, or lack thereof, so he starts looking for some of the cheap throwaway tupperware to pack some leftovers.

Anton's comes in next: _So change of plan mom wants me home for tgivnng on the bus now sry._

Not even dignifying that with an answer, Chris goes back to mashing his potatoes, a little miffed his get-together is now down three and three-quarters stomachs. So it'll be a small gathering of friends, whatever.

Another hour or so passes, and he's lounging for a minute with a beer, basking in the good smells of spices and warmth now permeating his place when the phone dings at him again: _Sorry honey I can't come._

Chris groans and texts back: _What's your excuse?_

_Recital next week. Alejandro's cooking health nut thanksgiving._

_Sounds fantastic. Meaning awful._ He thumbs back. _I guess I'll eat this giant fat fest I just cooked all by myself._

_Isn't Z going?_

He sighs. And then thinks about this turn of events. _You sneaky little bitch._

_Scuse me?_

_You orchestrated this. Made everyone else cancel, cuz of Z._

Silence. Figures. But then several minutes later, after he's gone to peek at the oven, his phone chimes again. _Hmm. Wasn't me. But maybe you should take the opp to HIT THAT ROMEO._

He snorts and types, _Enjoy choking down your tofurkey and gerbil food._

When the phone dings one more time twenty minutes later, he's more than a little miffed and fully expecting Zach to tell him that Joe's back in town after all and insisting he eat with family, and then he really will be stuck on his own, stood up by everybody. Story of his fucking life.

_Heading over soon. Want me to bring anything?_

Chris bites his lip hard, guts doing a little drop as he feels the gravity of the situation. Zach's still coming. _Just_ Zach.

Fuck, he can't do this. If he's actually going to grow a pair and finally fucking tell him, he needs time to plan what he wants to say, how to explain the fiasco at John's party, and figure out a way to make up for it. Not that he hasn't spent the last month trying and failing spectacularly to come up with that particular conversation. How would Zach take it? Would he even want to take it further? Would he want to forgive and forget and get back to just being friends? What if it ruins everything they already have?

It takes him a couple of minutes and several incomplete texts letting Zach bail out gracefully and leave him to his lonesome misery to eat his feelings, before he just takes a deep breath on the simplest one and hits send: _Just you._

No taking it back. He taps his fingers anxiously, staring at the phone until it dings at him again, making him jump.

_Can I bring Noah?_

Chris laughs with his nerves. _Of course_. He pauses a minute, grins and then types again. _And your banjo._

The response is a wry: _So just me then._ He can practically see Zach's patented eyebrow lift.

Shaking his head, Chris rereads the whole exchange over and over again, feeling more than the usual bubble of excitement in his chest, before jumping up and surveying his place. He'd cleaned up yesterday—he's gotten a lot better about not leaving shit on the floor or furniture out of place since knowing Zach—but he does another quick round anyway to make sure. It's only a few minutes before the doorbell rings, Noah barking reflexively from the outside to announce them. Chris chuckles, his heart preemptively setting off yet again.

Noah jumps up at him exuberantly before darting in to patrol the place as soon as he's off his leash. Zach has his banjo strapped across his back and a cloth grocery bag over his shoulder as he folds his cane up. "Am I the first one here?"

"Yeah, come on in," Chris dodges, initiating a hug that Zach returns a little awkwardly, given his hands are full. When he's let go, Zach hands off cane, leash, bag, banjo, and finally jacket before he inhales and stops short, intrigue on his face. "That's not turkey I'm smelling."

"I did turkey!" Chris insists, setting the banjo over by his own guitar stand, "Just a little one. I didn't want to be eating nothing but turkey sandwiches for a month." He yanks his eyes away from how edible Zach looks in a purple plaid shirt and dark-washed jeans, over to the kitchen. It's still a bit of a mess, though he's pretty much finished with the preparations. "Oh, and yeah, I just put the lasagna in the oven, too."

Zach's eyebrows shoot for his hairline. "You made lasagna. For Thanksgiving."

"Well, you know, I figured I'd change it up," he tries and grabs a rag to wipe down the countertops.

"You _do_ know my swarthy half is Italian, right?"

"Really? No way!" Chris teases, "I was thinking Turkish, or maybe Basque."

"You made lasagna," Zach repeats, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, "For a half-Italian son of immigrants for whom lasagna is practically traditional Thanksgiving fare."

Zach's eyes and face are practically shining, and Chris looks away again, feeling warm up to his ears, "There are mashed potatoes, too, to appease the Irish in all of us."

"Christopher," Zach grins, "Did you make heritage-appropriate comfort foods for your other guests?"

"You have no idea how hard it is to make kimchi, okay?" Chris deadpans, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the counter, then says a little ruefully, "Anyway, none of those assholes are even coming, so. I hope you're hungry."

Zach stills, "They aren't?"

"No. They ditched us," Chris looks back up at him, trying to gauge his thoughts, "I guess it's just you and me."

Here it is again, the pregnant pause of Zach figuring out what Chris had a half hour earlier, that they're going to be alone together again, for hours, in private, which has been punctuated by these uncomfortable moments for weeks. There's little more than the sound of Noah's tags jingling as he trots through the kitchen, seeking out crumbs on the floor. 

Zach clears his throat, lifting the bag he'd brought with him and pulling a bottle from it, "So, um. I brought champagne. The guy said it was a pretty good one. At least I hope so, he could have given me a two dollar sparkling cider and taken the sixty bucks I gave him, so…"

Chris comes back over to take it, "No, it looks good."

Zach shrugs, awkwardly, "If I'd known about the lasagna I would have brought a red."

"I have a Brunello," Chris offers, "Smells kinda like cherries. I opened it already, the guy told me to let it breathe."

"Oh," Zach's eye's widen with a teasing, hesitant smile, "Well, look at you, Mr. Sommelier."

"I am a man of cultural depth, I am," Chris declares with a grin of his own. "You want some? Yours or mine?"

"Sure, yours. Red sounds better with what I'm smelling," Zach says, sitting on the couch and roughing Noah up when the dog comes back to him, "When do we eat?"

Chris laughs, pouring the wine into one of the set of glasses he'd bought for the occasion. He's rarely a wine drinker himself, and brings the rest of his beer with him to the living room. "Here you go," he says, nudging Zach's outstretched hand with the glass. "Dinner's gonna need another hour, probably."

Zach sticks his lip out, pouting. "But I smell fennel. And basil."

"The basil is fresh," Chris settles, hitching an ankle on the opposite knee. "And it needs to cook until the cheese is all bubbly and golden on top."

"Fine, Pine," Zach grumbles, then smiles again, inhaling and then sipping the wine, "If we must occupy ourselves, put on the TV."

Chris does, flicking through the channels. "So… football game?" He laughs as Zach scrunches his nose up. "Parade?"

"Don't bore me. Parades were boring even when I saw them in person."

"Hmm… _It's a Wonderful Life_?"

"Depressing."

"It's a classic!"

"It's a depressing classic."

Chris flicks another couple of channels and Zach's hand shoots up, "No, go back! That's…" He stops to listen and lights up, "That is Ralphie, and this is _A Christmas Story_ , and we're watching it!"

Chris laughs at Zach's delighted demand. Of all the movies they watch together, the ones Zach has seen a hundred times with his own eyes make him the happiest, because he remembers exactly what's happening on the screen.

They're quickly falling into their buddy mode, and it feels great. They recite along with the choice lines, high-fiving when they both do the same one and agreeing that this film is poetry in its own right. When the kitchen buzzer dings, Zach pouts again when Chris makes him sit back down and wait till the movie ends for it to cool.

He can't help but study each interaction, trying to pick up on anything besides their typical camaraderie. It's hard not to think of what Zoe had said, her supposed intuition about Zach's feelings. Not just Zoe either, Anton and John now too. But where do they get this shit anyway? Why can't he see it himself? As far as he can tell, there isn't anything different about how he and Zach interact when they're alone than they do with the others around. They banter, tease, joke and laugh back and forth like any good friends do.

Things are still different, though. Even now, they sit on the couch with a good cushion's length between them as they watch the movie, where they used to have no problem being thigh-to-thigh, Zach's long arms thrown across the top of the sofa, or folding into one corner with Chris stretched the length of the rest, toes shoved up under Zach's leg to keep them warm. They've rarely touched in the last few weeks, not since the kissing only one of them knows the truth about, and the snuggling incident they both roundly avoid discussing.

He still can't be sure how that even happened. He'd certainly been unconscious when he'd stretched out, and given the state of him, there was a probable chance Zach hadn't done it with any sort of agenda either. It had just been two people occupying a small cushy space while feeling like crap warmed over, trying to be comfortable while they slept off a hangover. Right?

Chris sighs. He's over-analyzed it to death in his head, lying awake at night. All of this awkwardness is probably his own fault. Maybe he's the only one who's even feeling it in the first place.

Zach tracks the sound of his movement as he stands to get the food ready. Chris smiles again when Zach comes to hover in the kitchen entrance in anticipation. "You wanna carve the turkey?" he arches a brow.

Zach gestures with his almost-empty wineglass, "I think I'll defer to the man of the house."

Snickering, Chris carves, listing off all the dishes he'd made so Zach can give him a yea or nay. Zach wants some of everything, of course, so Chris has to get creative with his plating to fit everything on.

Originally, he'd borrowed an additional folding table and chairs from a neighbor, but now that it's just him and Zach, he considers just eating in front of the TV. Hell, he and Zach have already spent many an evening on his sofa with takeout boxes scattered on the coffee table between them like any other pair of bachelors. He has a small, disused table for two, which is most often a place to dump junk mail and other crap he has no immediate use for upon walking in the door. He remembers—completely inappropriately considering present company—that he'd only bought it because Dom had dragged him to Ikea one day early on in their relationship when she was feeling all domestic, and insisted he needed a table. She'd insisted he needed a houseplant too, to liven the place up. He'd let the thing go brittle and brown months ago, sort of a pathetic metaphor of their relationship, really. He'd finally thrown it out yesterday, when he'd cleaned up in anticipation of having company.

But now, setting their plates down at a table for two in his own place, it suddenly feels a lot different than eating casually on the sofa, or even dining out at restaurants as they so often have. 

He clears his throat as he sets down appropriate silverware, "So you have turkey at your six o'clock, potatoes at four and five, stuffing at seven…"

"Up the butt or no?" Zach queries with a wicked grin.

"No. Not up the butt with the stuffing," Chris laughs, and pauses, "Does that make it dressing instead? Wait, is it stuffing or dressing where you're from?"

"I don't know, but this conversation just got dirty," Zach giggles, rubbing away the flush over his cheeks. "Onward with my clock, sir," he waves the hand.

Chris bites his lip and stumbles on, "Okay, um. Squash and veggies at nine and ten because I know you love your rabbit food, green bean casserole at two and three, cornbread at noon. And cranberry sauce in the middle."

"And?" Zach waits, arching his brows.

"And what?" Chris feigns innocence, pouring Zach more wine and one for himself. Zach gives him an eye-roll and exasperated sigh, pretending to get up to leave the table.

Chris laughs, pushing his shoulders back down, then goes to the kitchen to deal out slices of lasagna on their own plates. "Now, this is my Grammie's best recipe, so honestly, I don't care how Italian you are or how not Italian I am. It's the best thing on this table," he says, daring Zach to dispute him as he takes the seat across from him.

Zach says nothing, though his face reads _we'll see about that_ , as he puts his napkin on his lap. He then picks up his glass and holds it up.

"Are we toasting?" Chris is quick to mirror him.

"We are toasting," Zach confirms, pursing his lips in thought. "To absent friends. Fuck 'em."

Chris snorts, clinking their glasses, and then plunges with his most immediate thought. "And to… to present ones."

Zach blinks, looking a little taken aback, before his eyelashes fall to his cheeks with a bashful smile that is just too beautiful, speaking quietly. "Yeah. To present company," he pauses for a breath before adding, "I'm really glad I met you."

"So am I," Chris agrees, voice low and probably a little more heartfelt than necessary. It feels weird again, so he pings their glasses together for a gulp before grabbing for his fork. "So, dig in, man. I've been cooking all this stuff since seven this morning and I'm starving."

Zach grins, pushes his large plate aside, and pulls the lasagna plate towards himself to do as ordered. Chris watches his expression go from curious and slightly wary as he forks a bite into his mouth, then work through surprise to bliss in a couple of seconds as he chews, _moans_ and swallows, going back immediately for another bite. "Holy shit, Chris."

A thrill erupts in his stomach at Zach's reaction. "Not bad?"

"No, it's fucking awful," Zach says through a mouthful, swallowing, "As in I'm going to get fat, because I'm going to need you to make this on a weekly basis."

"Better than Mom's?" Chris chuckles, sampling his own handiwork.

"Mama could never cook Italian," Zach confesses, cringes guiltily and then hastily throws out, "Um, don't ever tell her I said that. Do you really call your grandma Grammie?"

Chris can hardly reply, stuck on the notion of meeting Zach's mom in the first place, his mind launching immediately into a fantasy scenario where they're together and at the meeting-the-parents stage he'd only entertained once or twice before. Jesus, they scare the shit out of him. "Maybe."

He shifts in his chair and his foot nudges Zach's beneath the small table. Both of them start and mumble apologies, and the blanket of weird cloaks them yet again. Chris hastily belies it by offering the patiently drooling Noah a chunk of turkey, which launches them into a discussion of the appropriateness of the self-appointed dog trainer feeding the dog from table, and things smooth over once again.

Zach eats everything he's given, humming and sometimes groaning as he tastes and insists it's all delicious. "Said the actor," Chris teases, almost glad Zach can't see him blush and squirm in his seat with his own delight. He hopes like hell Zach's being truthful, because damn if he doesn't think he did a good job today, cleaning his own plate and leaning back.

"Holy shit," he groans himself, stretching as he stands and taking their plates to the sink. "So, food coma time?"

"Oh my god, absolutely," Zach agrees, "Sofa. Wine. Nap, maybe."

Chris inhales on that last, gripping the edge of the sink and watching Zach make his way back over to the couch. He didn't mean it. Didn't mean it the way Chris' brain immediately took it, back to waking up with Zach wrapped around him.

He decides to forgo cleaning up until a time when his gut doesn't feel like a bowling ball and sprawls on the other end of the couch, and in the interest of squashing this weirdness, shoves his feet against Zach's long thigh like he used to before touching each other got laced with so much significance. Zach doesn't move away, so he takes that as a win. "I have pie."

"Ugh, don't talk to me about it right now," Zach groans, one hand on his own tummy, then arches a brow, "You seriously baked a pie too? I hate you."

Chris laughs sheepishly, "No. I bought pie from the diner. But I made everything else from scratch, give me a fucking break."

"Given and forgiven, Master Chef," Zach grins lazily, dropping a hand to Chris' ankle.

Chris lies there against the arm, eyeballing Zach from under his lashes, trying not to move or breathe in a way that shows how set off he is by the warm fingers curled loosely around his skin, the pad of his thumb ever so slightly circling his anklebone. It's so ridiculous. Why has everything gotten so fucking weird that they can't even accidentally bump toes under a table without apologies, but this is okay? It's all in Chris' fucking head, obviously. It doesn't mean anything at all. It's just Zach, just a point of reassuring contact for a blind guy who's tactile by necessity.

Although he isn't, really, if Chris really thinks about it. Zach is more than capable of not touching people if he doesn't have to. He's perfectly able to get around, even without his cane, in familiar spaces like his apartment or Chris', or the bookstore. Zach is choosy about who he touches, and it's always people he's close to, like Chris. But that doesn't mean anything either, he's the same way with Zoe. Hell, he's ten times as handsy with Zoe and it doesn't mean anything, because Chris knows there's nothing going on there. At least he thinks, he's pretty sure Zach is only into—

 _Fuck, shut up_ , Chris tells his brain. "I have games," he supplies in the silence, sitting up and regretfully pulling away from Zach's fingers to reach under the coffee table. "It's tradition, you know. To play boardgames on Thanksgiving."

"Is it?" Zach breathes a snicker, "Well, by all means."

They play through a game of Clue (Mrs. Peacock in the kitchen with the candlestick), and when they've regained their legs, take Noah out for a quick spin around the park. The dog settles happily on the dog bed Chris had bought for him back when Zach had been in New York, and then they play through a game of chess, and Chris gets his ass kicked yet again. He barely notices the sun going down as they pop the cork on the champagne and chug through a heated and wordy game of Scrabble, going back to the kitchen occasionally to snack and refill their glasses. In a lull, Chris grabs his guitar and starts picking at it, Zach taking up his banjo, and they try to work out how to play songs they both know and love. Chris' slow finger picking of Elton John's "Your Song" has never been very successful without the accompaniment of the banjo's subtle twangy notes and Zach's soft yet resonant voice on the lyrics.

"I'm glad we did this," Zach smiles in the quiet afterward, banjo propped in his lap. "It seems like it's been awhile since we just hung out. I've missed it."

"Me too," Chris agrees, and tries to cover the longing in his voice with a joke, "I'm glad you pretended to like my cooking."

"Not pretending, Christopher, get it through your head," Zach rolls his eyes. "You know my abilities are tragically limited to cold sandwiches and heating up Lean Cuisine. And ordering in. Maybe I should have a standing order in at Chez Chris."

"Chris is a lazy chef," he says, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the brightness of the kitchen, which he still hasn't cleaned up. "Anyway, I won't have to cook for awhile. I'm gonna bring all this food to everybody at work, and they'll think it's because I'm so generous, when in reality it'll be out of spite. Bastards."

"I'm glad they ditched us," Zach's laugh cuts off a little abruptly, and his fingers pick at the frets of his banjo. When Chris is silent, waiting for explanation of that remark, he lifts a shoulder. "Just… things seemed sort of weird, so, I'm glad it's not. That we're okay."

Chris' heart almost clocks him in the throat. "I… yeah, I mean…" he stutters, like an idiot. He has no idea what to say, feeling it drop right back over them again. It's not just him, then. He needs to know where Zach is with this. "Wait, why is it, though? Weird?"

"I, uh. It was like..." Zach uncharacteristically trips across his own words, and his fingers playing and twisting up through his hair as his eyebrows pinch together, speaking in a rush. "It was… I was probably just imagining things, because you were busy and then I was busy and I sort of thought I maybe did something that made you mad, so."

"What? No," Chris hurries to say, "What would've… no. Why would you think that?"

Zach smiles tightly, giving a sigh. "I don't know. Just… the party, and everything. I don't remember much, and the day after was sort of—" he waves a hand in an inarticulate gesture and leaves it at that, looking deeply embarrassed. "I probably made a complete ass of myself."

"Zach. That was..." Chris blurts a stupid laugh, giving his own headshake as he remembers in vivid detail. "You didn't." He reaches over to Zach's knee and shakes it lightly. _I did,_ he wants to say. 

This is an opportune moment, Chris recognizes it sitting in front of his face. All it would take is for him to slide over and pull Zach's banjo out of his grasp and… "It was no big deal," he says. Goddammit. He pulls back, scrubbing his hand over his own hair. All of this fucking weirdness is his own fault, making Zach uncomfortable with him, and maybe even ashamed.

"Okay," Zach says softly, before he straightens up, rubbing a thumb and forefinger at his eyes. "What time is it? It feels late."

Chris exhales in relief for the redirection, and glances over at the clock on the stove, squinting at it. "Shit. It's almost nine."

Zach's eyes go comically wide, "Are you serious? Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm like the world's most imposing holiday guest."

Chris laughs again, suddenly glad of the respite. "No, no, man. Stay as long as you want, you know I don't give a shit. I should clean up the kitchen though." He lugs himself off the couch and sets his guitar aside to do that.

"You must be tired. Can I help?" Zach offers, standing to follow him.

"No, no, I got this," Chris shrugs it off, searching for foil and containers with lids in his cabinets.

"I want to, though, you did so much work," Zach smiles, unbuttoning his cuffs to roll them back as he crosses to the sink. "I'll wash up, how's that?"

Amused at his insistence, Chris shrugs and sets to wrapping up the leftovers and shifting things around in his refrigerator to make them fit. Afterward, he comes to Zach's side with the dishtowel to dry the plates and things as they come out of the sink. The hair on Zach's wrists and forearms is all slicked back with water and bubbles, big hands making quick work of each pot and plate. They work out a rhythm, smirking when one of them misses a beat.

With the mischievous tilt toward him as the last dish goes in the rinse water, Zach skims his hand over the surface to splash in his direction, leaving Chris' sweater splattered. Snorting, Chris retaliates, hip-checking him back before popping him on the thigh with the dishtowel. The open-mouthed look Zach gives him is mock-scandalized, before he tilts his body to the left and then the right, orienting himself exactly right to drive the fingers of both hands right into Chris's overfed belly, earning a satisfying "Oof!" and a laugh, as Chris launches over to tickle back. It's so slick, and so Zach, and so _them_ , that without a second thought, Chris reels him in by the waist and kisses him.

Zach lets out a gasp, back going straight in stunned surprise of the abrupt end of the tickle-fight. But then he makes a tiny noise in his throat, damp hands lifting to Chris' shoulders, fingers wringing at his sweater as he opens his mouth. He tastes like champagne and cranberries. Chris slides his hands around and up the strong, hard lines of Zach's back with an exalted groan, walking him backward to thump softly against the fridge.

Abruptly, Zach's hands slide down his arms and push him firmly off. He's breathing hard, fingertips rising to touch his own lips as if holding a memory there, but his face is bewildered, brows drawn, each inhale a little shaken. "It was you. At John's party."

Chris pants, wanting nothing more than to proclaim it, but fear of the wavering betrayal on Zach's face holds him back. Zach steps away, across the small kitchen, shaking his head, "I didn't know who it was. I couldn't _tell_ who it was, everything was just… it was loud and everyone's smell was off and I couldn't... I was really drunk."

"I'll say," Chris huffs with little humor, "Cho's Atomic Sangria. Should've warned you."

Zach's face is a wall of confusion, but his lips are pursed in thought as he recalls, "He— _you_ —kissed me like... like it meant something."

Chris exhales sharply and crowds up close to him, lifting his hands to Zach's face, "And when I kissed you just now, what did that mean?"

"Jesus, Chris," Zach breathes, gripping his shirt again as Chris licks into his mouth. Finally, fucking finally he has Zach under his hands, his mouth, he can't get enough—

"Fuck, wait, just hold on," Zach tears his mouth away, but Chris only tilts to kiss his jaw, his neck, feeling stubble under his lips like it's the first time and groaning at the taste of Zach's skin. "Wait a second."

"Zaaaaaaach."

"Okay, jeez, just wait," Zach pushes him off again, keeping his hands on Chris' shoulders, panting, flushed and wide-eyed. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you kiss me at that party and then not even say anything for a month, why are you…" He lets go and turns away again, bumping and then gripping the damp edge of the sink like it's the safe pole in a game of Chase. "God, I'm so… I'm just confused, okay? I didn't think you were even… I thought you were just being nice to me."

"I was," Chris darts his tongue across his lips, still buzzing with the friction of Zach's skin. He feels like he's on fire, every nerve zinging under his skin. He leans back against the fridge himself as if the front of it will cool him off. "Look, I didn't mean to… I haven't done this in years, okay," he gestures widely, uselessly. "And I didn't think about you this way at first. Not consciously, anyway."

"At first…" Zach parrots, head tilting and brows low, "Since when, then?"

"Since, uh," Chris bites his lip, scrubbing at his hair, "Since your New York thing. Maybe even before that, I don't really know."

"So you're… all this time, you've been like this?" Zach twists the heels of his hands into his eyes as if genuinely frustrated with how they've betrayed him, fingers pushing angrily up through his hair. "I can't fucking _see_ , Chris. I can't see what you want if you don't talk to me." 

Chris grits his teeth. "I know."

Zach lets his hands drop and shakes his head, "Why didn't you just tell me? Why couldn't you tell me?"

The hurt and foreboding in Zach's voice is physically painful to Chris, in the heavy squeeze it gives his rapidly pounding heart. "'Cause I was fucking scared, okay?"

The way Zach's expression starts to close at that is terrifying. It feels like the air is being sucked from the room. "No, don't—" Chris stumbles over his words, moving closer again, but Zach stiffens at his mere approach. "Please, just listen. It's not about that. At all. I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks. Would I have been your friend all this time if I cared what anyone thinks?" He growls in frustration, scrubbing his hands through his own hair, yanking at it and backing off. He's already messing this up so badly. "God, you smell so fucking good, I'll drag you outside and kiss you in the street if you want, then everyone can see!" he blurts out of frustration, turning away. He's so hard just from the taste of Zach on his lips and in his mouth again that he can't even hit the mute button on his internal monologue.

Then he hears a strangled sort of giggle. He looks back, still finding confusion on Zach's face, but also incredulousness. Chris just holds his breath until he speaks.

"I never thought I'd hear that from you." Zach lifts his fingers to his lips again, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "I never thought you'd kiss me."

Chris breathes again, deeply, trying to calm down, trying to remember what he wants to say. He reaches for Zach's hand, turns it and brings those fingertips to his own lips, kissing them softly, watching as Zach sucks in his breath, but doesn't pull away.

"I've wanted to. For months," he explains, breathing a laugh, lacing their fingers tightly. "And then I did, like a fucking idiot when we were way too drunk. I didn't mean to do it that way, I wanted to tell you. Every day, I wanted to tell you. I just didn't know how."

Zach is so very still. "So tell me now. Try to."

"Because," Chris inhales, tongue darting over his lips and nervous as hell, "Because, you're that guy that I hang out with, and read great books with, and my jogging buddy, and the guy who watches tacky movies with me and doesn't care if I recite the lines and likes my cooking and my singing and whose dog I love and just… all this. Everything today. Everything everyday that I've known you. And I still want all that."

Zach takes a deep, slow breath before he speaks, "But with kissing?"

"But with…" Chris snorts, "Yeah. And other stuff. But jesus, that day when we woke up and you were on me, you acted like you couldn't get away fast enough and I couldn't deal with it if you didn't want—"

Zach untangles his hand from Chris' and cups his face in his hands, one thumb reaching over to find his lips before he descends on them. Chris hitches a moan of relief, and this time Zach makes a small, low noise like acquiescence in his throat and wraps both arms around his neck, arching as Chris presses him back against the edge of the counter.

He didn't have that much wine, but he feels drunk, wrecked, annihilated to have Zach against him like this, his mouth hot, wet and open, tongue slick and and sweet and torturous. Jesus, he can kiss, his lips precise, experienced. He's so warm and sinewy and solid under his hands around his back, gripping his shoulders, so much heat against him that he can't help but press harder, and Zach lifts his head on a breath for Chris to suck on his neck. He tastes like he smells, that glorious dark, musky smell, but with the salt and tangy taste of skin, and it's intoxicating.

"You're shaking," Zach whispers as they take a breath, giving Chris a second to realize that he's damn near vibrating with nervous adrenaline. He pushes his face against Zach's cheek and laughs. 

"I can't believe I finally did this," he confesses.

"I can't believe you finally did this," Zach returns, murmuring lowly. "Don't stop."

"So it's okay?"

"Oh my god, Chris, what do you think?" he admonishes, tilting his hips up to make it really fucking clear how okay this is.

"Bedroom."

Zach makes an agreeable noise and pushes him up but not away, backing him out of the kitchen and down the hall, one arm wrapped around Chris's waist and the other guiding himself along the wall, their knees bumping a little awkwardly. 

His apartment is essentially the same layout as Zach's, but reversed, and because he's on an upper floor, his bedroom and bathroom doors are in slightly different places to accommodate a vent shaft, which has always tripped Zach up. Distractedly locating Chris' bed in the dark results in several thumps, laughs, and "ows" until they find the edge of the mattress and Zach presses Chris down onto it, climbing over him.

"Wait," Chris mumbles, the darkness full of the rustle of clothes brushing, breaths and kissing sounds. Zach has no use for drapes in his apartment, there are only blinds it came with, but Chris has blackout curtains in his bedroom, blocking out LA's ever constant glow. The residual light from the kitchen is barely enough for him to see anything but the surreal hint of movement in the black. "Zach, wait. I can't see."

There's a snicker followed with dry words breathed through teeth against his jaw, "Neither can I."

"God," Chris arches when Zach nips, hips bucking at the heat above him.

"Welcome to my world," he purrs against his throat, and his voice is easily an octave lower and sexier than Chris has ever heard it go before.

"Oh god, okay," he breathes again as Zach necks at him in the dark. "So I should, ah, probably tell you I haven't, uh, done this in a long time. With guys," he clarifies as he feels Zach pause and lift up slightly. "I have. Just... not a lot."

"What's not a lot?"

Chris swallows, taking a deep breath. "One guy, in college."

"Okay," Zach still hesitates, "But you want to? With me?"

"Yeah, I want to," Chris whispers, wrapping his arms around Zach to pull him back down, feeling the firm muscle and strength of him and the ache of just how long he's wanted this. "I really like you," he confesses, a sincere whisper into the safety of the dark.

"I really like you too," Zach murmurs back, and the reality of it in his voice as he presses back in to kiss Chris with renewed fervor that makes them both groan. But he pulls back on a laugh, "I'm glad we're leveling with each other, finally. God, I've wanted you forever."

"Really?"

"Jesus, Chris, yes," he leans up on an elbow, murmurs into his collarbone. "You had to go and be confusing as fuck, didn't you?"

Chris breathes a laugh into Zach's hair. "What do you mean? How was I confusing?"

"You had a girlfriend earlier this year, Zoe told me ages ago. She said you were all broken up about it. Hell, you and Zoe flirt all the time, you said yourself you had a huge crush on her."

"I… no. I mean I did, but not…" he stammers, changing tact. "You should talk. You never did anything either."

"I did, though! You let me touch you more than usual. You let me hold your hand. Most guys don't."

"I was—"

"Just being nice?"

"Not exactly. I was letting you see," Chris smiles in the dark. "I just… started to like letting you see."

Zach makes a growly noise in his throat as his hand slides down the length of Chris side to find the hem of his sweater, thumb dipping just beneath it, then stopping there. Feeling emboldened, Chris tilts up to murmur in his ear, "You wanna see more?"

"God, Chris," Zach exhales, his hand pushing under the knit, his palm cool against Chris' stomach. With a laugh, Chris sits up to pull it over his head, tossing it somewhere in the dark. "Ohh," Zach breathes as his hands travel up and over Chris' chest, skating lightly over nipples. "I want to look at every inch of you."

Chris shivers at the tone of that voice, all smoke and heat, and those hands that suddenly make every tiny hair stand on end. "I hope it's not too disappointing."

Zach's hands skate back up to his face, kissing him soundly. "Chris, you have never been disappointing."

This is Zach. This is Zach on his bed, over him, kissing him voluntarily and mostly sober, his hands lighting his skin on fire everywhere they touch. Chris eyes are starting to adjust, even to the barely-there light bleeding from the door, but he finds himself closing them anyway, just for the surprise of it, the sensation of fingerprints and lips in places he's sure there have never been lips before. Zach traces the arches of his ribs with the tip of his nose, follows the curve of his pectoral up into his armpit and licks at the spread of hair there, making Chris squeak and grip his headboard tightly to keep from snapping his arm down at the tickle. It only makes his arm muscles go taut, which Zach seems to appreciate with a breath of laughter. He traces the weave of his triceps with his fingertips and circles the breadth with both hands, a grin in his voice, "These arms, Chris. If you even knew how many times I let you lead me around just to cop a feel."

"Busted," Chris giggles, "Never again."

Zach gives that a petulant growl and leans down to bite the meat of his shoulder, soothing the teethmarks with his tongue. When he comes back up to kiss, deep and slow and plundering, Chris is nearly lost all over again, enamored with the heavy weight, the coarseness of stubble on his chin versus the smoothness of the skin his hands discover on Zach's lower back, under his shirt and just above his waistband. He's completely disarmed when Zach pulls off of his bottom lip and purrs, "Can I take your pants off?"

"Can you… uh, yeah," Chris mumbles, and inhales, "Yours too." Sitting them both up, he's breathless at having Zach straddling his lap like this, getting distracted in the dark from pulling apart the buttons of Zach's shirt for the crisp, soft feel of the hair beneath, the taut strength of his muscles, that smell so much stronger this close up, his amazing, incredible mouth, kissing at Chris' brow or hairline or ear, whichever happens to brush his own lips. He's vaguely aware of this strange deja vu, the familiarity, even though it's been years since he's been under a man and Zach is not one damn thing like Jason, he's so much better.

Chris shoves the shirt down off Zach's strong, wiry arms, trailing down to tug hard at the buckle of the belt. His fingers stumble in trying to work it open without being able to see it. Zach's laugh is a chest-deep, fingers tangling as they both work to pull apart and away and down, and Chris makes aborted bleat at the heat of Zach in his underwear. Zach inhales, both of them going still as Chris hesitantly touches him, first over cotton and then dipping his fingers beneath, whispering a curse against Zach's shoulder as he curls his hand around it. Zach is patient, his hands petting over Chris' shoulders and neck as he allows him to explore.

Chris is intensely aware, with the lack of his own sight in the darkness, that he can still feel the girth and length, the soft velvety skin over rock hard cock, the fact that he isn't cut, the head is a different shape than his own. He can smell the thick, deep masculine scent of him, feel a drop of wet at the tip that he wants, really badly, to taste. He swipes it off with his thumb and lifts it to his mouth, hearing Zach groan as he palms his face to orient him back up to kiss hard and deep, chasing that taste through his mouth, lacing their hands together as he pushes Chris back down to the mattress.

"My turn," Zach rasps, pressing kisses and little startling nips as he trails downward.

"Mouthy," Chris breathes a laugh, hitching as Zach sets his teeth particularly hard on his hipbone, and tugs at Chris' fly. He doesn't go straight for it, sitting back to pull Chris' jeans and briefs all the way off and toss them to the floor.

It feels like he takes ages, smoothing his hands over Chris' legs, fingers following the ridges of his shin bones and stopping to kiss and tickle at the back of his knee with his tongue, laying a bite on the inside of a thigh as he pushes it up to the side and splays a hand up the sensitive well of Chris' thigh. Chris can feel Zach's warm breath ghosting over his groin, his cock leaping at the sensations. He reaches back to grip the headboard with one hand just as Zach's finally skates up over him.

"Ohhhhh." 

Zach moans the word with such a tone of voice that Chris can't help but snicker, squirming as he twitches under Zach's hand.

"Jesus, I hope that wasn't a bad 'Oh'."

"That was a good 'oh'," Zach answers, and there's still some awe in his voice as his fingers pet him up and down with such torturous attention to the fucking details: tracing the shape of the crown with his thumb, stroking so lightly over the slit, following a large vein down the length, lifting the weight of it from his belly. "I don't suppose it would've been appropriate to tell me what you were huge before, but shit, Chris, I would've liked to know."

"Probably not," Chris laughs and then gasps as Zach presses his thumb against his frenulum, "Oh, right there, yeah, fuck."

"Oh yeah?" suddenly there's a flood of volcanically hot breath, and the point of a wet tongue wriggling over the same spot.

"Za-hach!" Chris gasps, hips barely caught by Zach's huge hands as he licks over him and sucks, groaning loudly.

And keeps it up, moaning and humming like he had sampling every new taste of Chris' cooking today, taking in as much as he can, tongue wriggling under the head at every upstroke.

"Fuck!" Chris whines, one hand slipping down to touch Zach's hair where it's tickling his belly on every downstroke. He finds Zach's face and feels his cheeks hollow from both sides, the brush of eyelashes as he blinks, pulls off and grabs Chris' hand to plant a wet kiss against his palm before he sucks one of his balls into his mouth and groans around it.

Every muscle in Chris pelvis goes taut. "Oh god, oh god Zach, I can't," he babbles. When Zach pulls off and slithers back over him, their mouths meet in a frenzy. Chris doesn't know when Zach got rid of his underwear but he's naked, aligning them both together between their bellies. Chris curls his legs around Zach's, anchoring him with those long thighs, arms curling up over his shoulders, anything to pull him closer. One of Zach's hands palms the side of his face, the other gripping tightly to his own against the pillow above his head, and Zach presses his face to Chris', foreheads together and noses nestled side by side, starting to move. There's only darkness, and the hot friction of skin and hair, the damp, slightly tacky slide that gets steadily smoother and wet, the stuttery, rhythmic clench of Zach's long legs between his own, the sounds of them gasping each other's air, and that heady, deep smell of Zach and spices and wine and sweat and sex.

Zach comes first, with a shuddery moan and Chris' name on his lips. It's that and the sudden hot throb and flood between them that has Chris crashing into his own orgasm with a shout. Zach's weight goes dead over him, dropping his head into Chris' neck, both trying to catch their breath in the sudden, sharp quiet. The darkness feels warm and melty and sleepy and good.

A tentative jingle and scratch at the mattress breaks the silence. Then a quiet whine.

"Noah, go away," Zach lifts his head a little to say, prompting an incredulous giggle from Chris. There's a snuffle, a groan and a thump as Noah lies down on the floor by the bed. Zach shakes with laughter himself, turning his head to breathe light and warm over Chris' cheek as he shifts their legs and slides just a little to the side, but not nearly enough to separate.

"So," he rumbles, still low and velvety, "That's new."

Chris snorts, "Um, yeah."


	13. Chapter 13

When Chris wakes the next morning, it's to a thump and quiet "ow" from the doorway. He cracks an eye to see Zach leaning on the dresser in the barely-there light bleeding in behind the curtains and rubbing at his stubbed toe. Naked. He stoops, finding jeans on the floor and sits on the bed to pull them on.

Chris reaches out to stroke a hand down his side. "Mornin'," he mumbles, scrubbing at his eyes with the other.

"Morning," Zach smiles, immediately reaching for Chris' hand and turning to him.

"Y'leavin'?" he asks. He's not awake yet by any means, but Zach putting pants on pings some kind of an alarm.

"Just taking Noah out," Zach answers, leaning over him to kiss. His mouth is warm and soft and prickly around the edges, pulling a rumble from Chris' throat as his eyes fall closed again, sleep still draping his mind. He can feel Zach's fingers push up through his hair, his lips drop to his forehead, and his voice is so rich, even in a whisper, "Go back to sleep."

"M'kay."

 

He must doze for awhile, because when he wakes again, it's much brighter, even with the drapes closed. He pulls open the one above his bed to let the sunlight stream in, lying back to stretch in its warmth and snaking a hand under the sheets for a scratch. He palms his morning wood as he remembers the night before.

He and Zach got together last night. Holy shit. A stupid giggle leaves his throat as he scrubs a hand over his face and up through his hair. That actually happened.

Reluctantly stopping his languid petting, he figures it's probably a better idea to pee and rolls up off the bed to pad to the bathroom and do that. When he's done, he splashes his cheeks at the sink, staring at himself in the mirror, like his face should somehow be different.

Because everything is different now. Everything changes from here. He has this imaginary ideal of how it's all supposed to go, how he'll handle situations he's never been in and how the rest of the world will relate. But he knows it doesn't always work that way. And he needs to know if Zach wants the same thing. For all he knows Zach, he doesn't know him on these terms. He grips the edge of the sink and sighs, then grabs his toothbrush.

Very few of his relationships have been what he'd consider successful. Each one happened in a hurry, as he figured details could be worked out later, and it turns out the details matter a lot. Some took longer than others to reach a breaking point, but they all fell apart eventually. But he and Zach are different, right? They've been friends for a while now. They already have a lot of their details down in terms of friendship, but this opens up a whole new closetful, so to speak. Chris still has a lot of things to figure out on his end, and chances are, if Zach's relationship history is as iffy as Joe made it out to be, he does too.

But none of that matters right this second, because Zach left.

Scrubbing his face, Chris leaves the bathroom and stares blankly around, trying to figure out how much time has passed between Zach leaving and now. The sun is bright and full, streaming through the windows of his bedroom as he opens the other set of curtains. His phone sits on the corner of the nightstand nearest the bed. Stepping towards it, he hears the sound of the apartment door. He makes a hasty grab for pants on the floor, but suddenly the dog comes galumphing into his room, nearly taking him out at the knees with glee. 

"Whoa! Hey, okay, you crazy mutt! Watch it!" he laughs, roughing the dog up.

"Noah, get off. Go away, you jerk, out," Zach commands as he makes his way down the hallway, waiting for the dog to scoot out the bedroom door with a jangle of tags before shutting it behind him. 

"You came back," Chris falters, feeling more than a little exposed, faced with Zach in broad morning-after daylight. "You were gone a while."

"I took him home to give him and Harold their breakfast," Zach explains, a smile playing on his lips as he moves toward Chris' voice. "Were you worried?"

Chris scrubs at his hair sheepishly, "Maybe."

"Well, halfway out the door I realized these were your jeans, so..." 

The jeans he's wearing are indeed baggy around the ass and a few inches too short at the ankle. The purple plaid of last night is gone, replaced by a fitted striped sweater, which only makes the jeans look more shapeless.

"That is a walk of shame, Zach," Chris giggles, dropping the jeans clutched in his hand—which are Zach's, he now realizes, "You can't be seen in this neighborhood again."

"Whatever, it was a stride of pride," Zach comes closer, one hand reaching out to find Chris' arm. "The guy I was with last night was smoking hot. Plus, he cooked me lasagna." He encircles Chris' waist, tugging him close, "Why the hell wouldn't I come back for more?"

Feeling giddy and warm, Chris' reply is a wry laugh, "There are leftovers in the fridge."

"Good to know," Zach purrs, bringing their foreheads together. He lowers his lashes, his voice and face going soft. "Hi."

"Hi," he whispers back, a little breathless at this brand new dynamic.

They kiss, deep and languid as Zach's fingers trace up Chris' bare back and down again. And down a few more inches over his hips, exploratory as he inhales between them, brow pinching together in undisguised want, "You're still naked."

Chris bites his lip against a smile, hands inching under the stripey sweater, "You're wearing too many clothes."

Laughing, Zach lets him pull the sweater off and undo the jeans, tugging him back toward the bed as they slip loosely down his long slender thighs. "Hey! Deliberately tripping the blind? Not nice."

He braces himself on Chris' shoulder to step free of the legs, Chris pulls him to the bed, collapsing back as Zach climbs up to join him.

Sitting up between Chris' sprawled legs, Zach bites his lip as his hands slowly trace his thighs and hips, avoiding anything more interesting for now. His expression is a little guarded when he says, "If I'm honest, I did get kind of mad at you again while I was at home." 

Chris sucks in a breath, dropping his hands down to Zach's and waiting for him to elaborate.

He sighs, their fingers tangling. "You just... left me there in the hallway. You didn't say anything."

Groaning, Chris pulls back to cover his face, "I know. It was stupid."

"Just…" Zach sighs, leaning to prop himself on his arms over Chris' chest. "We could have had this a long time ago, you know? You could have just told me what you wanted."

"I know, I'm a douchebag," Chris mutters, "I could've… I dunno. Had some balls."

Zach arches a wicked eyebrow, "Um. I seem to recall a substantial pair." He wriggles his midsection where he's draped between Chris thighs and says, "Yep, there they are."

Chris snorts, shoving Zach's shoulder and scrubbing his own face. "I meant, I've just never done this. Made a move on a guy before. You know?"

"I do," Zach nods, his fingertip tracing the shape of Chris collarbones. 

"So, why didn't you do it?"

"Come on, Chris," he huffs in answer, "I can't just hit on a guy I think is straight. I'd get my ass handed to me."

"I wouldn't do that," Chris frowns, "Even if I was completely straight I wouldn't have been upset by that, Zach. You know me."

Zach sighs, putting his forehead down on his arms, his breath hot and damp against Chris' chest. "I don't know you, though. Not really. Not if this was on the table."

Chris winces at that, because it's true. For all they talk and get along and are best friends, Chris has withheld the relevant little fact that he likes guys sometimes, and likes Zach particularly. Going back to his earlier thoughts, he lifts his hand to Zach's face to urge it into view again. "Maybe it was better this way."

Zach's brows come together in a question, and Chris moves his thumb to stroke the crease between. "I just… I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, you know? Being like this, with you. It's stupid, I've never been a jump-first kind of person on anything, except in relationships. I've always just thrown myself into them because I have all these feelings and then watched it all go to hell afterwards because it wasn't ever going to work in the first place." He takes a deep breath, his chest lifting Zach on top of him as his fingers toy with his hair. "I didn't do that with you. I didn't want to mess up."

"Yeah," Zach agrees, pushing his mouth against his forearm for a moment in thought before he lifts up with a silly smile. "We kind of dated."

"No we didn't," Chris smirks.

"We kind of did, though," Zach argues, and then he confesses shyly, "I maybe… god, this is ridiculous, but there were times when I sort of pretended we were dating the whole time." He giggles, his eyes sparkling in the light, "Jesus, Chris, that first day, you asked me to coffee and then walked me home."

Chris breathes a surprised laugh himself. He remembers, even back then, thinking that Zach was probably one of the most strikingly unique people he's ever met in his life, and how much he wanted to learn about him, to know him, to see how he navigated his life. Maybe Chris has been harboring this thing for a long time. Maybe it was his own reservations about getting involved with a guy again, or coming off of a soured relationship that he'd really tried to make work, or the fear of getting attached to anyone again that held him back, but for whatever reason, he's taken a long hard time to think, and still found himself wanting.

He lifts both hands to Zach's face, brushing the soft strands of his hair back from his eyes. Eyes that are so deep and warm and full of life and intelligence and compassion, however broken they are. Framed with that strong brow—he smooths his thumb over one again, down his cheek and scratchy jaw. He draws a finger down Zach's prominent nose, which he wrinkles up and huffs with amusement, "What are you doing?"

"Looking," he answers, because it's completely true. Last night, he'd felt and heard and smelled everything with unrelenting intensity, but this morning, with the bright sunlight making dust motes sparkle around his bedroom and washing Zach with gold, it's the first time in this entire thing he's been truly able to see Zach in this way. Laid bare, physically and metaphorically, for him to learn and explore all over again. Like he belongs here, in Chris' bed, in his arms. "God, you're gorgeous." He pulls him closer, tighter. "I can tell you that now, right?"

Zach just chews his lip and tightens his brow, looking bashful and a little bewildered.

Chris sighs, "You don't believe it, do you? Even though I'm sure you've heard it before."

Zach still hesitates, his finger tracing over raised freckle on Chris' chest. "It's not… it isn't that I don't believe it. People mean it differently, with me," he mumbles. "I know they don't do it on purpose, but they don't know how it sounds, sometimes. Some people say to me, 'If I only knew'. Like any aspect of my life would be somehow different if I knew how I look now. My family, for instance. My mom said once that I finally grew into my face, that I look like my father. But my aunt just sighed and said what a shame it was."

Chris feels a hot swell of anger at that. "That's bullshit. Jesus. Why would she—?" He huffs himself silent, trying to think of the right thing to say, "Whatever, it isn't you, you know? It's not all of you. Everything you are, how you live your life… If they'd open up their fucking eyes and look beyond the cane and, and everything, if they weren't so damn blind themselves..." He stops, squeezing his eyes shut at using that analogy here. "Fuck. Sorry. I just mean you're... you're the _bravest_ person I know. That's what people should see."

Amusement passes Zach's face, his hand smoothing flat over Chris' sternum, "Your heart rate just went nuts."

"Yeah, well, I'm just pissed off on your behalf."

Zach breathes a soft laugh and leans forward to kiss him, just slow, soft lips. "I don't need rescuing, but thank you."

Chris grumbles. Zach has chided him over this before. "I can't help it. I'm the kind of guy who'll spread my coat over a puddle for the sake of your shoes. You can blame my mom for that."

"You realize I'd fall on my face because you dropped your coat in front of me, right?" Zach pokes him in the chest.

Chris snickers as Zach sits up, straddling his waist—careful not to crush anything, though Chris' half-hard dick wakes right back up at its proximity to Zach's naked ass—and says, in an echo of last night, "My turn."

Chris grins wide, and in a moment Zach does too. "I can hear you smile, do you know that? Even when you don't say anything."

"How can you hear a smile?" Chris snorts.

"The same way I can see the sunshine. Sometimes I think I just imagine it, but it's still the greatest thing."

Chris giggles as both of Zach's hands smooth up to his face, the left going right for Chris' mouth. He tries to make his expression more neutral, but Zach just says, "Nooo, keep smiling!"

"You wanna feel my spitty teeth?"

"Whatever, I've traded spit with you already." His fingertips do slide lightly along Chris' front teeth, over his bottom lip, along the top one, up the divot to his nose and back to the seam of his mouth. Chris purses around them in a wet, slow kiss that makes Zach inhale and his lips twitch, though he wipes the saliva off and keeps tracing Chris' face, lightly brushing his eyelashes, learning the shape of his nostrils and the slope of his nose, his stubbly jaw, his hairline, his ears.

"So what do I look like to you?" he asks, inescapably curious as Zach traces the way his eyebrow lifts up.

Zach tilts his head, "Zoe told me you look like young Brad Pitt, but with Val Kilmer's mouth," His fingers come back to his lips.

"She did!?" Shit. From Zoe, that's pretty high praise. "Wow. Wait, you asked Zoe what I look like?"

"A long time ago, at the beginning," Zach admits, "Zoe is a wealth of opinions on everyone. In a totally loving way, of course."

"Of course," Chris squirms under him gleefully, "This explains you wanting to watch _Tombstone_. And _Willow_."

"Oh my god, I had such a thing for Mad Martigan when I was like twelve," Zach pretends to swoon.

Chris laughs and considers, "Young Brad Pitt. So, are we talking _Thelma & Louise_ and _Johnny Suede_ or like, _Twelve Monkeys_ and _Interview with a Vampire_? 'Cause there's a big difference. Or like old Brad Pitt. Or old Val Kilmer, he kinda let himself go."

Zach laughs, "I have no idea what old Brad Pitt looks like."

"He's still hot. Just a middle-aged, practically married to the hottest woman alive kinda hot."

"Then I guess you'll be hot forever. Provided you don't 'let yourself go'." Zach drags both hands to Chris' belly and drives his fingers in. 

"AGH! Hey!" Chris jerks at the tickle, grabbing Zach's wrists. "I ate a ton yesterday, okay?"

"You know none of this even matters to me, right?" Zach laughs, "You're you. I don't care what you look like. I think you're beautiful, here," he taps Chris on the forehead with his fingers, and then slides his hand down over Chris' heart again, "And here."

It's kind of nuts how profound and how unapologetically real that feels. Chris is pretty sure no one has ever told him something like that in his life. He pulls Zach down to reach his mouth, deepening the kiss as he feels Zach's hands still touching, smoothing over his cheek and arm and down his side, fingers mapping what they can reach. 

He raises his eyebrows as they pull apart, "Calling your bluff, there. You're still looking."

"You're still fucking hot," Zach retorts, leaning down to suck on his collarbone, "I never said it wasn't an added bonus."

Giggling, Chris gasps when Zach bites again. His dick throbs, and Zach feels that too, rocking his own hips down and making them both groan and grin against each other's mouths. Fuck, this is real. He has Zach in his bed and it's fantastic.

He's twining a leg around one of Zach's when a song issues from somewhere in the room, some muffled instrumental Indian sitar-y tune. "The fuck is that?" he mutters, and Zach groans and pulls fully away, keeping one hand on the bed as he drops to the floor and gropes toward the sound. He finds jeans, and then finds the phone in them.

"Hello? Yeah, hey," he answers it, sitting back on the bed. Chris sits up, a little annoyed at the interruption, draping himself over Zach's back. It doesn't sound like a business call, at least. He can't really hear the other end of the conversation, but he can tell, with a pang of jealousy, that the other party is definitely a dude.

"Yeah, no. Um," Zach hesitates, and Chris mouths across his nape to make sure he's not about to go anywhere. "Actually, I'm gonna be kinda busy all day today."

Chris chuckles low and triumphant. "I'll keep you busy, alright," he breathes into the ear opposite the phone, watching Zach's eyelids slide closed as his jaw drops a little.

"Um. Yeah. I'll just call you next week, then. Sometime. Bye." Zach hangs up, tossing the phone off the bed and twisting to pull Chris' head over his shoulder to kiss him hard and deep until his neck aches and he has to pull back.

"Who was it?" Chris rumbles, tasting the delicate skin behind Zach's ear.

"Mmm? Oh, I was supposed to have a massage today, but Ferguson wanted to change the time. I'll just reschedule."

That twists through Chris' guts. It's irrational, but he can't help it, especially now. Wrapping his arms tight around Zach's ribs, he presses his face against Zach's warm shoulder for a minute. "So, since we're leveling with each other about stuff today…" he starts.

"Yeah?"

"I should probably tell you, I really hate that guy."

"Really?" Zach turns his head toward him, genuinely surprised. "Why? He's so nice."

Chris sighs, thumping his forehead against Zach, who can't see the bullshit Ferguson oozes from every pore. "Exactly. He's _nice_. But it's this fake sincerity of someone who's telling you what he thinks you want to hear. Or what he wants you to believe. He's such a poser."

"Why do you say that?"

"I dunno," he grouses, "He has like six Greenpeace stickers on his car, but the big stuffed orca in the rear dash? Pretty sure it came from the same sweat shop in Taiwan that Sea World where gets theirs. He's an armchair activist, in other words, the kind who cares just enough to buy a t-shirt so everyone else knows where he stands. The guy's a walking oxymoron." 

"So I'll assume you picket regularly for world-saving causes and don't have any pretentious bumper stickers."

"I have one that says 'I'm hung like Einstein and smart as a horse', right next to my UC Berkeley sticker," Chris grins.

"I'm never riding in your car again," Zach groans. "Seriously, I'll take the bus."

"I'm kidding about the Berkeley sticker, come on," Chris settles more comfortably against and around him, hand stroking up to his chest with an exhale. He's being juvenile and petty, and he knows it. "Fine. I guess Ferguson's not that bad. He's just really annoying."

"I think he's a little annoying too," Zach agrees.

"Good," he grins, thinking about the root of it for a moment. "He does have this one unmitigated character flaw that I just can't stand for, though."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"He tends to put his hands all over you," Chris growls, tightening possessively around Zach again. "I really have problems with it."

"I do pay him to do that."

He yelps and laughs when Chris heaves them around until Zach is sprawled on his back under him. "You know, I would have let you get your hands all over me a long time ago, if you'd just asked."

"Yeah, well, let me make up for lost time," Chris murmurs from where he's nosing around in all that fantastic chest hair. 

Zach lies there quietly for a few minutes as Chris licks and kisses over his nipples, working slowly down the center of his stomach. "He doesn't get his hands _all over_ me, by the way."

"Promise?" Chris asks, tracing the groove from hip to groin with his thumb and watching Zach squirm.

"Never ever. He's very professional," Zach hitches a gasp at Chris' gentle teeth on his hipbone, dropping one hand into his hair, while the other rests behind his own head. "He's also straight, so."

"Could've fooled me."

"You don't listen to him talk about his girlfriend every week," Zach mutters, eyes closed. The hand on Chris' head nudges in a suggestive direction.

"Pushy," Chris laughs up at him, and gets a shameless grin for it, then looks down at Zach's cock, licking his lips. "So, uh. I haven't done this in like ten years. In case it's subpar."

Zach rakes his other hand up through his own hair and sighs, "Chris, if your mouth feels as half as good on my dick as it does everywhere else, I very much doubt—AH MY GOD. Ohhhh, you're such a liar. Subpar, my ass."

Chris giggles around his mouthful. If there was anything Jason ever told him he was good at, this was it. His exact words were _Oh fuck, you're a natural_. It helped that he'd discovered that he loved sucking cock at the time, a fact he's rediscovering now. He slowly, tautly pulls all the way off, letting Zach slap back to his belly and sets to licking and mouthing him all over, watching his face and stomach muscles twitch in reaction to especially sensitive spots. He pauses to crawl up and kiss Zach deeply again before he drops back, braces his palms over Zach's hipbones and swallows as far as he can, winning a gorgeous moan and watching Zach lift both of his arms up to grasp the pillow under his head.

He keeps an easy rhythm going for awhile, listening to Zach's breathing get heavy, little needy noises and his body writhing before he pulls off again to catch his own breath, bringing one hand up to keep a rhythm while he mouths at his balls, lightly sucking at the skin between them.

"Chris. Jesus," Zach breathes, one hand slipping down to his face.

Chris kisses the heel of his palm, "Let me do this. I've been imagining this for months."

"Me too, just…" Zach gasps as Chris opens his mouth wide over the base of him and sucks hard. "Oh my god, I'm not gonna last."

"So don't."

Zach whimpers as Chris trails his tongue back up and sucks on the head, a gush of precome coating his tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he rasps and gathers himself up to take him down again, intent on making him come in his mouth. He'd rarely been allowed that before, so when Zach's hips tilt and his stomach muscles fuse and he pulses across Chris' tongue with a shuddered groan, a fire shoots down his own spine with a desperation of his own. He swallows, licks his lips, and sucks up the rest to swallow again. Zach's arms drag him up the bed as he grabs for his own cock, gasping as he falls to Zach's side and jerks himself furiously.

Batting his hand away, Zach licks into his mouth and kisses him messily as he takes over, his hand large and warm and tight, thumb stroking over the slit with each quick stroke. Chris quickly forgets about kissing, his mouth going lax and panting against Zach's as all his concentration heads south. "Oh fuck," he gasps and grabs Zach's arm tightly, hips jerking into Zach's fist and side, so close.

"Come on come on come on, do it," Zach breaths against his mouth, and Chris finally goes over with a wide-mouthed moan. "Yeeeeah," Zach growls in his neck through it, thumb smearing the mess until he's empty and Chris collapses against him, laughing as they catch their breath.

Lying here, with Zach's nose tucked against his cheek, fingers of his clean hand rubbing slow, wonderful circles of warmth into his scalp, Chris finds himself basking in how not awkward he feels. He opens his eyes to sunlight and Zach's chest hair, rising and falling steadily, matching warm puffs of air against his cheek, Zach's other hand relaxed on his own messy stomach.

Back in college, if Chris hadn't been left alone to stew in his own insecurities most times when Jason pulled his pants back on and ran off to catch the bus back to San Fran, he'd been quickly admonished into silence for voicing said insecurities. _You're gay, Chris_ , had been laughed into the dark more than once upon his nervous introspection afterward, _Nobody gives head like you do and stays interested in girls._ Eventually he'd stopped asking questions at all.

Of course he knows better these days, he's had a decade since to learn about himself and square with it on his own. But it still left an impression, and he's glad to be able to lay here and not feel that way, finally. He feels warm and sated and kind of hungry and a little sticky, but happy. He feels like he's on some sort of cusp, a turning point in his life, one of several he's been working toward. He can become a teacher, and have a career instead of just a job to pay the bills. He can maintain lasting friendships. He can get over bad relationships. He can maybe start a new one, one that's rooted in friendship already. With a guy.

He turns his head, initiating a slow, lazy kiss and pulls away when Zach starts to perk up and follow him off the bed, but he presses him back down with a grin. "Stay."

Zach grumbles, but stays, holding up his sticky hand, and Chris snorts, "I'm getting it, just stay."

He heads instead for the kitchen, washing his hands and grabbing what he wants from the fridge, setting the microwave before he ducks into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. The microwave dings, and he runs to grab the plate and heads back, setting his prize on the nightstand before he takes Zach's hand to clean him off.

"Cinnamon?" Zach says as Chris swipes at his tummy and throws the rag toward his hamper. He snickers, taking up the plate and climbing back on the bed. "It'd be better if I warmed it up in the oven, but I don't wanna wait." He forks off a bite and holds it out. "Open your mouth."

Grinning, Zach does willingly, and Chris pauses momentarily at his trust, feeding him the bite and taking one for himself.

"Apple pie for breakfast?" Zach lifts a brow as he chews.

"Don't knock it," Chris says through his own mouthful of gooey apple, gathering up another bite for Zach.

They finish off the slice, between smirks and giggles, with Zach taking the fork himself to feed Chris some, and squealing when Chris cleans up the fallen crumbs with his tongue, leading to sticky, apple-y kisses.

"Want to go get coffee?" he says, after the plate is empty and set on the nightstand again, "We can go to the park, let Noah have some fun?"

"Okay. But shower first," Zach says, "We are ripe, my friend."

 

In the park, there's an easy silence between them that has always been there, Chris with the leash and Zach with his cane folded up, walking with their hands entwined.

A jogger passes, her ponytail swinging. Her eyes fall to their hands briefly, then she's gone, sneakers thumping away behind them. He thinks about how they have always started a jog, hands clasped for the first several strides, sometimes longer as they find a rhythm, Zach often reaching for him again mid-jog just to reorient himself after a turn, or Chris reaching for him to get him around something in the path. 

As much time as they spend here together—walking the dog, jogging, sitting in the grass playing music—Chris has never really looked around at the other people. People who are likely as regular as they are; runners, nannies with strollers, families with small kids or dogs. He knows them by sight on a subconscious level, and they know him and Zach. And it's Zoe's words that come back to him now about how people look at them.

"I told Zoe," he confesses. "Awhile ago, actually."

Zach turns his head toward him on an inhale, "You did? She never told me a thing!"

"I swore her to secrecy," Chris laughs, "Anyway, I had to say something, she was going to try to hook you up with someone else."

"She did mention some dancer guy she knew awhile back," he comments, making Chris groan and squeeze his hand. Zach laughs, "Come to think of it, she has asked weird questions about you lately."

"Like what?"

"Like, what we've been up to, or if we'd had a fight," Zach shrugs, and frowns. "She was pretty pissed you left the party without telling anyone."

Chris sighs, turning them off the path to their favorite spot under the big jacaranda. Zach sits with his back to the trunk like usual, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles (in his own jeans this time), the breeze pulling at his freshly washed hair. Chris sits closer than usual, cross-legged and facing him. 

"She knew it was me, at the party. She probably realized it when you told her what you remembered."

"Maybe. She did get kind of grumpy that day. Bought a pair of shoes I told her not to get." Zach recalls, "She returned them later. I can't believe she never said anything."

Chris smirks and scrubs his face, "Fuck. I accused her of making everyone cancel on us yesterday too."

"You think she planned this?"

Exhaling, Chris shakes his head, "I don't know. Now that I think about it, I'd put it on Cho if I didn't already know he's beyond this sort of thing when it comes to food," he smiles, "Cho and I go way back. He figured me out a _long_ time ago. Zoe's seen me through girlfriends, but Cho was there for the… uh, the guy."

"Do you still have pictures of your old girlfriends?"

Chris cringes. "Maybe. Why?"

"Don't worry, it's not like I'll find them. I just wonder the sort of things people hold onto," Zach shrugs, "What about your old boyfriend?"

"He wasn't…" Chris sighs, picking at the grass, "A boyfriend. Really. And no. I have nothing from him."

It's the truth. He has no physical reminders of Jason, nothing to hold in his hand and look at. He doesn't really want what he does have, this sort of festering scar on his heart. "I dream about him still, sometimes. Not often, and not, you know. Dirty, usually. He just shows up and makes me feel…" he stops, shaking his head.

Zach reaches for him and finds his knee. "What?"

"I dunno," Chris sighs, putting his hand on top of Zach's. "He makes me feel like a failure." He inhales quickly, "But so does Dom, and Beau and… Olivia, jesus, that was a trainwreck." He looks back up at Zach's face, then back to their hands, now clasped loosely and resting on his knee. He doesn't want to talk about this stuff. "I kind of suck at this."

"All of my relationships have ended the same way," Zach sighs, "Joe says every guy I date is a douchebag, and I just can't see it."

"Case in point, the guy who stole your stuff?"

"He told you that?" Zach furrows his brows, "Wait, you talked to Joe about this?"

Chris laughs. "More like Joe cornered me about it. Your brother had me figured out before I had me figured out."

Zach puts his head back against the trunk and shakes it, "Is literally everybody in on this but me?"

"Sorry," Chris offers swiftly, feeling like a jackass at just how many people have been circling them like vultures. He shakes his head, laughing, "God, your brother's gonna kill me."

But Zach shakes his head again, dismissing, "He likes you. I thought that was kind of weird, considering Joe's opinion of most of the guys I like." He tucks his chin down again, knitting his brow, "The guy who stole from me was… probably the worst. Why I haven't really seen anyone since I moved out here."

"Is it hard?" Chris asks, wincing after the fact at his own tactlessness, "Dating, I mean."

"Do I have a basis for comparison?" Zach gives a headshake again, pushing his bangs back with his free hand. "It isn't easy. In hindsight, I probably should have realized with him. He had a drug problem, I guess. I never knew. He hid it from me, because hiding shit from me is easy, right?" he pauses, hunching forward. "My things would go missing, and I'd just think I lost them. Little things at first. I don't even have a lot of stuff, you know, so you'd think I would have caught on eventually." His brows drop as he thinks about it, "Some records I had. Cash from my wallet. An old watch I'd stopped wearing. My dad's gold cufflinks."

Unbridled anger wells up at that, being privy to how close Zach and Joe were with their father, and the few things they have left of him. That anyone was that low to take so much advantage. Chris must squeeze too hard, because Zach turns back to him with a pointed, "Ow, hey."

He releases Zach's fingers, but cradles his hand in both of his own. "I don't want this to be hard. I want us to just be us."

A soft smile comes back to Zach's lips. "Then let's just be us. With kissing, and other stuff."

Chris smiles himself, "Okay."

"Okay, no more serious shit," Zach declares, leaning back against the tree trunk again, "Tell me something you'd never dare tell me before this."

"Like what?" Chris hitches a laugh, thinking everything up to this point has qualified. "There's a lot of things."

"Anything! Something silly."

Chris casts around in his head, landing on something that is silly enough to make him blush. "When I dream of you, you can see," he worries his lip, heart thumping, and quickly adds, "That's stupid, right, it's like some selfish sort of wish fulfillment, even though it's totally—"

Zach stops his words with a gesture and smiles, "In my dreams, I can see you."

Warmth spreads through him at that, that Zach still dreams visually, and that he dreams of Chris at all. "You can?" 

Zach shrugs, "I mean, it's a version of you, I guess. I can't see your face, but I know it's you. It can't be anyone else."

"Why not?"

Zach smoothes his hand over Chris' knee again. "Because it feels like this."

It feels like this, if Zach feels the same giddy bubble in his chest, that same feeling like they've been running just slightly off-kilter for a while and now they've finally aligned back on smooth track. Chris tips forward, bracing an arm on the grass across Zach and kissing him. When their lips part, Zach smiles curiously and murmurs, "Is this okay?"

"Mmm?"

"We're outside."

Chris glances around. There are people, but no one really nearby. The girl on the park bench could be smiling at something on her tablet, and if she noticed them, she doesn't look again. Chris doesn't care either way. He'd told himself a long time ago that he wasn't hiding this part of himself, though he never really considered there'd come a time when it would be important. He remembers that day at Disneyland, holding Zach's hand across a table at an ice cream stand. He shrugs, "I want people to see you how I see you."

Zach grins bashfully, "And how's that?"

Chris scoots closer and brings his hand to Zach's cheek. The words are so stupidly romantic as soon as they come to mind, but fuck it, they're true. "That this amazingly hot, smart, sweet guy isn't just with me for my eyes. And I'm with him for everything else."

On an exhale, Zach's eyes fall closed for a moment, "Everything?"

"All in."

Zach raises his eyebrows, nostrils flaring a little as he purrs, "That would imply we're kind of dating. For real."

He looks up, heart thrumming in his chest, "Yeah."

There's a gleam in Zach's eyes, and this close, with his face pointed exactly at the right angle, they give the impossible illusion that he's looking right back into Chris' own, trying and failing to hold back a smile. "We're totally boyfriends."

Chris kisses him hard, his hand sliding up into his hair, "Let's go back home."


	14. Chapter 14

Back inside, Zach has barely unclipped the leash from Noah's collar before Chris is divesting him of his cane, propping it against the wall, and then pushing him against the door with a grin. Zach laughs lowly against his mouth, letting Chris kiss him deep and slow for a minute before he pushes him off, shrugging out of his jacket and peeling Chris' down his arms. He drapes both over the back of a chair, finding his cane against the wall to fold it properly and lay it on the seat where he usually puts it before he reaches out for him again.

The pads of his fingertips stroke feather-light down the outside of Chris' arm, sweeping underneath at his elbow to his side. His other hand comes up, framing Chris' hips, fingertips sneaking under his t-shirt for a little skin before retreating back over and up, tracing his ribs, his thumbs sweeping Chris' nipples over the cotton. 

"Didn't see enough of me this morning?" he teases, soaking in the attention.

"Oh, one good look and I'm done?" Zach sasses back. "You look different now."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"No?" Zach asks.

Chris feels overly aware of his body and his breath, watching Zach's expression as he backs him further into the room and his hands continue to explore, his soft eyes shifting here and there, like he’s always in a faraway daydream. He thinks of all the subtle little ways Zach experiences his world through his hands, dragging his fingers along the edge of a table or counter, a doorframe, bookshelves and tables at the shop, the way he’ll eventually forgo his cane in familiar places in favor of his fingers, making his bubble of space have a smaller but far more sensitive reach. He’s gravitating to certain places on Chris' body now as well, learning it in ways he didn’t have access to before—his collarbones and chest, the ridges of his hips as he crowds Chris against the back of the sofa.

"You look different like this," Zach explains, the juncture of fingers and thumbs cradling Chris' ears before tracing down the column of his neck, exploring the meat of his shoulders, the curve of his back. "The way you carry yourself, how your body distributes your weight. Plus you look different with clothes on, too. So by that reasoning, I should get to see a different you every day," he grins wolfishly, "Layer by layer by layer."

Giggling, Chris plucks at the hem of Zach's sweater, his own thumbs finding the soft trail of dark hair just under his belly button, and a little buzz fires down his spine. When Zach's hands drop to his wrists again, capturing his hands back against the fabric of the sofa and holding him captive there with a hint of a smile, the electric sensation slithers right on its way to his cock as Zach leans in and inhales against Chris' throat.

"Mm, you smell good," he hums just under Chris' ear, low and raspy, "Coming back now."

"Back?" he swallows.

Zach’s smile widens, dragging up to his mouth to kiss him sweetly. "Washed off in the shower. It doesn't take long to come back, though. I know your smell. I woke up surrounded in you."

"Yeah?" he murmurs into that soft mouth. With Zach pressing all warm and intent against him, he's quickly losing his train of thought.

"You know, the first time I went to the bookstore, there was this guy," Zach purrs, his hands skimming to his hips again, under his shirt. "Smelled so good, I knew I'd have to come back."

"I thought you smelled Zoe," Chris stutters as Zach's hands trace along the skin above the waist of his jeans to the fly, thumbs teasing at the button. "Uh, jasmine and… something."

"That was the second time," Zach corrects, "The first time I went in there, Cheesewhiz was just so eager to please, when I just wanted to get a look at the place." Button popped and loosened, Zach fingers skim around the denim to dip underneath at the back, "But there was this other guy, in the back. Smelled fucking amazing," he smiles, teeth against Chris' jaw, "Didn't say a word."

Chris hums into another kiss, because he remembers. The _first_ time Zach had come into the shop, he hadn't known what to say at all. He'd been crouching to inventory books on a low shelf in the kid's section, and Zach had accidentally tapped him on the ass with his cane, reached down to touch the back of his neck before immediately drawing back with an apology. Chris isn't sure if he'd responded at the time, as dumbstruck as he'd been by the whole encounter, that a guy wearing fire engine red, skinny-cut pants and a plaid shirt could even make that look good (he's since discovered Zach has the same pants in olive green and turquoise). He'd also never expected to see him a second time.

The kiss deepens, Chris letting go of the couch to wind his arms around Zach's neck and bury his fingers in that luscious hair, tongue chasing him back into his mouth while those big hands push right down the back of Chris' jeans and squeeze. A hot, heady rush shivers through him. 

Zach is astonishing like this. There is so much about him that pings all those stupid territorial feelings he's had in most of his relationships, that desire to protect and possess and care for. But he also taps that secret, tucked-away craving of his to just let go of everything and be the one looked after, to be deconstructed and held down and strung back together by someone who knows what he needs in that headspace. This Zach adds a whole new layer to everything. He's vulnerable and fearless, silly and sexy, playful and bossy, and combined with this exciting new thing between them, it pounds every single one of Chris’ buttons. His heart and cock are throbbing, latent sense memories skittering through his body.

He pushes them up on a deep shuddering breath, taking Zach's hand to pull him swiftly to the bedroom, shedding his t-shirt when he's in there. Yanking open his nightstand drawer, he presses the condom and lube into Zach's palm before he grabs and kisses him again. "Do it." 

"Chris—" Zach tries to speak around his mouth.

He goes for the fly of Zach's jeans, insistent, "I want you to."

"Okay, wait."

"Zaaaach."

"Chris," reaching for his shoulders, Zach pushes him gently back, "Wait a minute, okay? You just went kind of weird on me."

"What the hell, Zach?" Chris huffs, "Yeah, it's weird, I don't ask a guy to fuck me everyday."

"Okay," Zach agrees, sliding his other hand down to Chris' bare chest, where his heart is thundering against his ribs, "I know. I don't want you to be freaking out about this."

"I'm not freaking out," Chris grits his teeth, pushing Zach's hand off. He ducks his head, backing fully away to cross his arms over his chest, going on the defensive, "This is a stupid fucking thing to argue about."

Zach's eyes go wide. "Are we arguing already?"

"I… fuck. I don't know," Chris sits on the bed, scrubbing his hot face. "It wouldn't be my first time. You don't have to treat me like I'm gonna break."

"Okay," Zach exhales, edging over to the mattress to sit, setting the supplies aside on the bedspread between them. He reaches out to find Chris' wrist, fingers lightly circling. "Okay," he repeats, "But maybe you're not the one who's kind of fragile, here." Chris looks back at him, and gets a careful smile as Zach continues, wryly, "I don't want to go into this blind, you know?"

Chris has to give that snort. Taking a deep breath, he pulls out of Zach's grasp to pick up the lube and condom again. The combination of Zach bringing this to an abrupt halt and calling him out has effectively killed his boner, which is annoying, but his heart is still thumping. That hasn't gone away.

"Are you mad?" Zach's voice is reserved and unsure.

Chris shakes his head, setting the stuff on the nightstand.

Zach sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. "Okay, here's the thing. If this is going to work, if _we_ are going to work, I need you to use words. 'Cause I can guess a lot of things right now, but I can't tell if you're about to call this whole thing off, and that scares the shit out of me. Are you nodding or shaking? Talk to me."

"Sorry. I'm not mad," Chris mumbles, then clears his throat, frowning, "Well, I'm kinda mad. Just… I'm not sure why anymore."

"Okay," Zach breathes again, tipping forward to kiss Chris' shoulder, bringing a hand to the back of his neck and then scooting cautiously closer to wrap around him from the side. He tilts in to kiss his neck, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, which Chris is helpless to resist. Zach's fingers card through his hair as he breaks away, “God, I'm not saying I don't want you. I do. So much, Chris."

Chris tilts to kiss the part of Zach's wrist in front of his mouth. "Okay."

"But... maybe you should tell me about your guy," Zach says hesitantly. "Just so I know where your head is on this."

"I'm just," Chris flinches, "I don't want to talk about him. I don't want to think of him when I’m with you."

Zach blinks, curious. ”Do I remind you of him?"

"No. Not at all," Chris says quickly, looking back up. "But you make me feel like—" he sighs, shaking his head in frustration, incapable of explaining. "You make me feel a lot of things he made me feel. God, I sound like an idiot."

"No you don't," Zach dismisses that. "What things? Good or bad?"

"Good, of course." Chris turns so he can fill his vision with with Zach, to remind himself of who Zach isn't. "Different. It was a lot, you know? Everything was overwhelming back then. So is this. All this, not just…" He squeezes his eyes shut, popping them back open and taking Zach's hands in his own. "I mean I like it, I really, really do."

"I hope so," Zach gives him a soft smile.

"I do," Chris repeats, looking down at their fingers, "I did then, too. I couldn't say no to this guy. I was wrecked for him, I'd do anything he wanted."

Zach smiles, biting his lip and lifting an sly eyebrow, "Kinky."

"Shut up," Chris ducks his head, drawing a deep breath. It's weird how the sex stuff was sort of mentally removed from the way Jason had patronized him about it afterwards, and the years of self-preservation and personal acceptance he'd had to find on his own because of it. "I just. I haven't… wanted this sort of thing since then, that's all. It's kind of weird. Wanting it again."

"Scary?"

Chris hesitates. The machismo in him doesn't want to admit it, but Zach sees right through him. Figures. "A little, yeah.”

Zach sighs softly, crawling up to pile the pillows and sit against them. He tugs for Chris to follow, pulling him up and over to straddle Zach’s lap, hands drifting up his body to center Chris' face, mimicking eye contact. "Let me tell you something, okay? Most of the sex I've had in my life, I couldn't see. It's scary as hell. I can't see who I'm with, what they're doing. I can't see what they're thinking, _if_ they're thinking. I have to trust they know what they're doing, that they're going to listen to what I need, what I feel. And sometimes they don't, you know?"

Chris has never even thought about that, how Zach's gone through so much of his life in darkness, including this. He can barely imagine it, that kind of fear in the middle of the most exposed and vulnerable of acts, a hundred times more than anything he's probably ever dealt with himself.

Zach's thumb traces Chris' cheekbone and sweeps down to brush over his lips. "So I get it. There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn't trust people so quickly. I took a chance and trusted you when you followed me home the day we met, even though Joe gave me the third degree about it later. I had to trust you when I got hurt, and when you took care of my pets, and last night, when you kissed me.” He brings their foreheads together with a sigh, “You make it easy, do you know that? You make me feel safe. I want you to feel the same way with me."

"I do," Chris breathes, reaching for Zach's mouth and getting it, winding his fingers in his hair. "I want this, Zach, I trust you. I want you."

Pulling gently back again, Zach regretfully holds him off, "Okay. I know, I do too, but..."

"But what?" Chris whines.

"Just, there's no rush, you know? I like everything we've been doing," Zach gives him a silly smile, "Besides, day after Thanksgiving. Not exactly the best day for it."

That yanks a loud laugh right out of Chris, sitting up and back over him, "Oh god. Way to kill the mood. Thanks."

"I'm sorry! It's true, though!" Zach giggles, hands sliding down to Chris' sides, fingers curling in to lightly tickle, "I'm just saying, it probably wouldn't be the most comfortable thing for you today. You fed us both too well.” He drums his fingers on Chris' tummy, then skates them around to his butt, heat and longing coming back to his expression. “I want to take care of you, make you feel good.”

Chris pauses, momentarily struck by how heartfelt that sounds. “Likewise,” he murmurs, tipping back down to kiss him again.

"God, you have a great ass," Zach growls when they break, fingers tracing over the denim pockets, "Has this thing been in front of me the whole time?"

"Yup," Chris nibbles along Zach's jaw to his ear, wriggling his butt a little under those hands. "You gonna to be all sweet and careful with it?"

A gasp is forced out of him when Zach retaliates for that statement, slipping his hands right down under Chris' jeans again, squeezing tightly and grinding them together, ”I'm going to give it what it deserves, that's for sure."

"Zaaaaach, jesus," Chris smears into Zach's neck, nerves lit up again as one shrewd finger dips down and over his hole before Zach pulls his hands from under the clothes and back up to safe territory.

"Tomorrow," he purrs, low and dangerous in Chris' ear.

Chris grumbles with frustration, resting his head on Zach's shoulder and studying his profile, reaching up to stroke at the stubble on his strong jawline, "Do you always top?"

Zach inhales at that, his lungful lifting Chris on his chest and taking a second to answer, bringing a hand up to Chris' nape. "No. But I don’t usually bottom until I know a guy really well. 'Til I know how… _present_ , I guess is the word?—they are in bed. It feels safer, for me."

"Because of what you said before, about knowing where my head is?"

"Yeah," Zach answers, pushing his hand up into Chris' hair, his voice soft but his fingers lightly gripping. "When you get like you did earlier, that... irrational sort of lust? It's hot as hell, don't get me wrong, but that's what scares me. It can go so many ways when that happens.”

Considering this, Chris thinks aloud, "So, it's easier for you to call the shots." He lifts up to look at Zach's face in sudden concern, "Did something happen to you?"

"Not like you're thinking," Zach answers that quickly. “After the accident, I hadn't been with anyone since high school. I spent six years with my mom and doctors and physical therapists as pretty much my only company. Nothing but my own hand, basically,” he sighs at remembered frustration. “So when I finally got away alone, I was pretty naive about how it really works out in the big wide world, right? A gimpy blind guy walks into a gay bar by himself. What do you think happened? The guys are all drunk and cruising, and I think we've established how I am when I drink more than I realize."

Chris frowns, tightening his arm around Zach's shoulder possessively, "I don't like the sound of that."

Zach gives that a dismissive eyeroll, "Relax. I was a horny kid and I wanted what I got. I just didn't know at the time that I was easy to take advantage of and it could be a lot better."

"I still don't have to like it," Chris grouses.

"What about you?" Zach counters teasingly, "Do you always bottom?"

Chris laughs, "Well, not recently."

“Hey, you might be surprised what women are into," Zach laughs. "I meant with your guy, silly. Did he ever let you fuck him?"

"No," Chris mutters, planting his forehead on Zach's chest with a sigh, fingers picking at the threads of the sweater as he remembers Jason's intensely assertive personality. "I don't think that was ever on the table."

"Would you want to?"

Chris lifts up to see Zach's face, "You'd want me to?”

“At some point, if you wanted,” Zach nods, sliding his teeth over his bottom lip and drawing Chris closer. “I trust you.”

"But not today."

"Not today, Pine," he snickers, rolling them over, "Not today." Chris growls into his mouth when he tips back down to kiss again, and Zach breaks away, "Oh, what? We're practicing our words, Christopher."

"Cockblock."

Zach blurts a laugh against his cheek, "Okay, that's a good word. I didn't say we couldn't keep messing around today, did I?"

"You're bossy," Chris complains, "Now I see what I'm getting into."

Zach gives that a bitchy snort, sitting back between Chris' thighs. "Fine, Your Fucking Highness, what would you bid me do? I am but a servant." He gives a theatric wave of a bow.

"Lose the sweater," Chris decides. There's only so much Bright Stripey Zach he can take when there are alternatives.

"You want a show?"

"Hey, if you get to touch, it's only fair I get to see," Chris grins, crossing his arms behind his head.

Rumbling a laugh, Zach tugs up the edges of the sweater and undershirt. His stomach tightens and his ribs arch out as he gets them over his head, dropping them off the edge of the bed and raking both hands up through his staticky hair with a bashful smile, "I don't know how good I am at a striptease."

Chris watches his sinewy arms as his hands slide down his neck to rub at the pink flush crawling its way down, dropping his eyes down the length of Zach's lean torso with its perfect pattern of hair pointing ever downward. “Keep blushing like that and you'll do just fine," he encourages lowly.

Zach's face changes, darkens, and he drops down to kiss him hard again. "God, I love how your voice does that growly thing."

"Yeah?"

"Jesus, Chris," Zach murmurs. "The _third_ time I went to the bookstore, I finally got you talking," he mouths down Chris' chest and belly. "By then it was a lost cause. I had to think up all sorts of books for you to try and find for me."

"Hey!" Chris swats at him as Zach laughs hot against his stomach, "Man, I did so much research for you! I bet you already knew you couldn't get most of them, didn't you?"

“And yet, you kept on going, like your internet was different than mine.” Still giggling, Zach thumbs open the rest of Chris' fly and tugs the jeans and briefs down, detangling them from his legs and tossing them off the bed, hands sliding along the outsides of Chris' bared thighs as he crawls back between them, "But it was so sweet, and it kept you talking to me."

"Right," Chris rumbles again, on purpose. "Who's being taken advantage of now?" He gasps and shudders as Zach gently nips him on the inside of one calf near his knee, his cock quickly coming back to life. "Yours too."

"My what?" Zach asks innocently, tonguing the mark he made.

"Your pants," Chris squirms. "Take 'em off. I wanna see."

Zach doesn't, leaning down to trace his tongue all the way up to the ticklish part between hip and thigh. "What do you want to see? Words, Chris."

"I want you naked. Wanna see your cock."

Zach's eyebrows go up, "That's more like it." He lifts up on his knees between Chris' legs, thumbing down the line of his button fly to the strain of underwear beneath. Chris reaches to curl his fingers around each side of the denim, trying to tug them down.

Hitching a little laugh, Zach bats his hands away, his voice going low and dark, "Uh-uh. You look, I touch. It's only fair."

Making an indignant noise, Chris rubs his palms across the insides of his own thighs as Zach pushes his jeans down enough to palm himself through his briefs. Chris huffs a breathed out “Oh." _Oh_. Zach’s going to touch himself and let him watch. Jesus. His heart tumbles as Zach squeezes himself through cotton. His upper lip twitches and nostrils flare, teeth grinding together momentarily at the pressure. His cheeks are so, so pink.

"Go on," Chris whispers, eyes darting between his face and his crotch, licking his own lips. Zach grins coyly, his lashes dropping and he tucks his chin, hair flopping down as he pushes his hand under the fabric and strokes.

"Fuck, Zach," he moans, his hand going to his own cock to match the languid movement for a few minutes, reaching with his other hand to hook in a denim pocket still bunched at Zach’s thigh and tug. "Take 'em off.”

Zach wriggles free of the rest of his clothes, kneeing back up in the space of his legs until Chris' thighs are draped over his own. His fingers drift lightly over Chris' skin, down the insides to let his thumbs brush the ultra-sensitive wells of his groin and lightly down his taint. Chris gasps and shivers, his cock twitching as Zach scoots even closer, until their pelvises touch, dicks and balls nearly nestled together. He slides his hands up over Chris' stomach, feeling the muscles work as he breathes.

"I'm starting to see how your cooking skills are going to be a regular problem," he smiles, bringing his hand down over where Chris' hand slowly jacks himself. “You good?”

"Yeah," Chris mutters, pushing his free hand up under the pillow below his head to resist reaching for Zach, eyes raking over him. "Keep going. Let me see you."

Zach's cheeks flare red, taking himself in hand again, his hips swaying forward against Chris as he hums, biting his lip. One of his hands gropes over the bedspread, searching around before he laughs, "Where'd that lube go?"

Chris snorts as he grabs for it from the nightstand, flicking the lid and squirting some into his hand. Zach holds out his own, palm up, but instead, Chris warms it in his own before reaching down.

"Oh my god," Zach gasps, a little startled by the sudden slick grip, but he quickly recovers, tangling their hands to spread the lube around and then takes Chris' dick in his own grip, their wrists brushing where they cross.

"Fuck yeah," Chris breathes, his head dropping back and watching Zach. His eyes are closed, his bottom lip wet and red where his teeth periodically worry at it, hair flopping down over his brow. The line of hair down his stomach shifts as Zach's hips tip back and forth, fucking up into Chris' fist, the head of his cock red like his mouth. "You're so hot like this," Chris mutters, shifting to sit upright, anchoring his feet behind Zach's ass, keeping them tight together. "You have no idea how much I've imagined this. Watching you.”

Zach's clean hand reaches up to Chris' hair, tugging him in close to lick into his mouth. "Did you touch yourself? Thinking of me?" he rasps against his lips, hand moving faster.

"Why do you think I stocked up on lube?" Chris says, breath hitching as Zach's thumb flicks over the crown of his dick. His hips jolt into it, grinding their knuckles together.

"Jesus," he growls, "Did you… What did you do?"

Chris reaches up to lock his free arm around Zach’s neck, keeping them forehead to forehead. The rhythm of their hands between their bellies comes together, fists slippery and tight as they work each other. "I jerked myself raw thinking of you," he confesses, "When you were gone, I did it in your bed." The whimper that falls from Zach’s mouth spurs him on, "I pushed my fingers up inside, imagining you."

"Oh my god,” Zach gasps, hips jerking hard, “Chris, I'm gonna come, don’t, oh, don’t—”

Chris tightens his hand and lunges up for his lips, pumping into Zach's fist, feeling hot come hit his stomach and gush over his hand as Zach's groan spills into his mouth. He blurts out a wordless cry of his own as he follows, shuddering and sweating, their hands simultaneously slowing and milking each other empty. 

Flopping backward to the pillows, he heaves for breath as the strain of holding them so close finally lets loose. Zach pants above him, hands pushing through the mess on Chris' belly before he arches down to drag his tongue through it. Chris groans, pulling him up to lick the taste from his mouth.

Their lips separate with a smack, and Zach smiles, shifting to the side to avoid the mess. Chris laughs breathily, reaching down to the floor for his shirt to wipe up.

He drops the shirt off the bed, nuzzling into Zach and looping an arm around him. "You're gonna make me do so much laundry. I hate laundry." Zach snickers, fingers curling against Chris ribs to tickle and make him squirm. 

A jingle of tags and the telltale sound of Noah nosing around makes him look up, finding the dog with the dirtied shirt in his mouth.

"Fuck! Noah, no!" He lurches up to yank the shirt out of the dog's mouth, "That's gross!"

Zach doubles around himself with laughter as Chris gets up to actually put the shirt in the hamper, going into the bathroom for a wet rag, now that he’s up anyway. Once they’re both cleaned and settled in again, Noah jumps up with them.

"Bad dog. No cookie." Chris reprimands with no real intent. Noah merely lies down on Zach's other side, tail thumping and propping his chin over his owner's long thigh under the sheet. Zach reaches down to pet his head. 

"He steals underwear too," Zach offers. "Things to be aware of getting when involved with me."

“Great," Chris rumbles back, eyes drooping shut as Zach curls close and warm, fingers tracing over his chest. They follow the light pattern of fuzz between his pecs and that circles his nipples. Under these hands, Chris feels heavy and sated and happy.

Zach presses a kiss into Chris' shoulder, his voice so soft in the midday quiet, "I can't believe I get this. I can't believe I get you."

Chris tugs Zach even closer. "You have me."

Zach smiles widely. "You have me too."

Chris pulls him in to kiss again, reveling that he can do this, that this whole thing wasn't the usual confused and unrequited fascination. It makes him giddy. He has Zach. He can hold him, feel the warmth and weight of his body, kiss him until they’re both too sleepy, and lay here until all they’re doing is breathing each other in, dozing off the endorphins.

 

 Into the quiet, there's a sudden knock at the door. They both come instantly wide awake with a breath. Noah yips, head shooting up, ears upright. Zach reflexively grabs for his collar and whispers, "Were you expecting—?”

“No!" Chris answers quickly.

The knock sounds again, louder, and then Chris' phone goes off. "Shit," he jumps at the chorus of 'Naughty Girl' before he tumbles for the phone, muffled in his jeans on the floor, "Shit. That's Zoe." He answers it.

"About time," she says by way of greeting. She sounds tired, or annoyed. Probably both. "Are you in bed, you lazy ass?"

"Uh. Maybe?"

"Well, get up and come answer your door," she snipes back.

"Okay, jeez. Gimme— _shit_ ," he fumbles, nearly dropping the phone. "Gimme a minute." Hanging up, he flips back over to Zach, "She's at the fucking door!"

"Shit!' Zach laughs as Chris stumbles, hastily yanking the jeans on and plucking a clean shirt from the dresser. A third impatient knock sounds, making Noah whine and Zach grab for his nose. "Chris! My clothes!"

"Fuck!" Chris grabs Zach's jeans and sweater from the floor, pushing them at him, "Hold on. Let me just see what she wants, okay?"

"Kay," Zach giggles maniacally, and Chris kisses him hard before dashing out, closing the bedroom door behind him and ducking into the bathroom to splash his face and rake his hands through his hair before skidding down the hall. Pausing by the front door to disguise his breathlessness, he pulls it open to a cross-armed Zoe.

"Hi," he prompts.

"Hey," she replies, then looks him over, "How are you?"

"Fine," he says vaguely. He could elaborate on that, but no. "How are you?"

"Hungry," she wilts, her features immediately smoothing into guilt. "I'm really sorry I didn't come yesterday. Are you mad at me?"

He purses his lips, stringing her along, “I could be.”

She sighs heavily, crossing the threshold to hug him. "I mean it, sweetie, really. You would have been a lot more fun than eating quinoa and talking shop, then trying to pretend Alejandro wasn't getting into it with his boyfriend because there was a mismatched chair or something equally asinine." She breaks off and plays with the zipper pull of Zach's jacket, draped over his own on the chair.

"I had fold-up patio furniture," he offers, closing the door and eyeing her hand on the jacket. Doesn’t she recognize it? On the seat of the chair—slightly hidden by their coats—is Zach's cane, folded and wrapped in its elastic loop, and Noah's leash. She doesn't seem to notice. How can she not fucking notice? It's _right there_ and oh god, he's failing this spectacular charade already. His hand migrates up to his neck, "Uh. Took it back to my neighbors, though."

"The horror," she says as she spins on a heel to lean on the back of the sofa, right where Zach had him captured earlier. "A cheap plastic chair and lives are ruined, did you know?"

"I won't say it," he tries.

"Say it anyway, make me feel it in my soul."

"I told you so." There's a hollow thump from down the hall, sounds like a gunshot to his ears, but Zoe seems to miss it. It’s an apartment, he has neighbors, there are weird thumps all the time, right?

"You did, I deserve it," she says, shrugging out of her own coat and sagging in her oversized sweater. "Tell me you have leftovers?"

"I have a shit-ton of leftovers," Chris says, walking to the kitchen. "I cooked enough to feed like eight people." He makes his tone accusing, though he can't possibly be mad about it anymore. There's another small sound down the hallway, the telltale scratch of Noah pawing the bedroom door. Chris clears his throat, scrapes his nails on his jeans loudly to cover it up, yanking open the fridge and shifting random things around to make noise.

"Jeez, I'm sorry. But other people showed, right?" she says hopefully, leaning over his counter. "Did Zach come?"

Chris covers a laugh with a cough, turning wildly to the sink to wash his hands, with soap this time. "Um. Yeah." _A few times_. 

"Well?" Her voice is sweet and prying, "How'd that go?"

"It, uh, it went okay," Chris scrubs his face with his wet palms again before wiping them down his jeans, turning to the fridge again.

"Well, don't be shy," she goads, just as another irrefutable noise comes from the bedroom, Noah whining. "What _is_ that?" Zoe asks, turning her head.

Chris is formulating an impromptu holiday dog-sitting lie that holds no water when he hears the door open and Noah immediately comes barreling into the kitchen to greet her. "Hey, it's my buddy! What are you—?”

He hears the water start to run in the bathroom before Zoe's round eyes fly up to meet his own with a gasp. Shitballs, there's no escape now. Not when Zach makes his way into the kitchen, fingers trailing along the wall.

"Hey Zoe," he says brightly. 

"Hey baby!" Zoe squeaks, wide eyes darting between them. Chris palms the back of his neck and studies his bare toes against the floor.

Zach’s toes curl a little on the linoleum nearby. He clears his throat in the thick silence, shoving his hands in his pockets with a caught-with-pants-down expression, “Sooo.”

"Oh my god, okay," Zoe laughs, hands fluttering over her own face. "You guys were… were you...?"

"Not exactly," Zach shrugs, "We were, um, afterglowing?"

Chris palms his hot face. He pulls open the fridge a third time, looking to cool it off when Zoe shouts, “Well, it’s _about damn time_ , you guys! Come here. Come here come here come here.” She hugs Zach, snakes an arm out to grab Chris and yank him in to it, and then steps back, looking at them both and shaking her head, "Oh my god, okay, no, I should leave, because this is awkward and embarrassing and you two should be alone."

"No, it's okay, right?” Zach says, turning to Chris.

Chris takes a deep breath, trying to recover his nerves. She’d have found out sooner or later anyway. “No, come on, it's fine," he laughs a little forcefully, pulling out cartons of leftovers. "Let me feed you.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” she deflects. “I don’t wanna impose.”

“You had all kinds of plans to impose a minute ago,” Chris points out. “You came in here whining about being hungry.”

“Let him feed you, sweetie,” Zach insists, “He made lasagna.”

That catches her attention. “For Thanksgiving?”

“I did turkey too, look!” Chris insists, pulling out the remains of the bird. “I did turkey and potatoes and cornbread and everything. And lasagna,” he tacks on with a shrug. “You all had no confidence in me.”

“Patently untrue, I had all kinds of confidence,” Zach grins in his direction, the hand closest to Chris finding a belt loop to tug, “Everyone missed out, and I’m glad they did.”

Chris aims his smile down at the food covering his worktop. He drops a hand to Zach’s to squeeze briefly before turning to pull a clean plate from the cabinet. As he assembles a plate, he can see Zoe just dying to ask for details.

“Alright,” she says, spreading her hands. “You gotta at least tell me who made the move.”

Zach points in Chris’ direction, biting his lip.

“See?” Zoe points at him too. “See? I knew you could do it.”

“Whatever,” Chris says as he puts the plate in the microwave and sets it. “I almost screwed it all up just like the first time.” He comes back to Zach’s side to pick at the cold turkey himself.

“Almost,” Zach smiles. “But not quite.”

Zoe grins, “Speaking of which, _you_.”

“Who?” Zach plays along.

“You, Zachary. You didn’t say a word about any of this,” she accuses, “At least Chris told me! You sat there pining like a… like a… shit.” she snorts at her own joke along with the pair of them, “You pined as much as Pine did, and you never even bother to confide in a girl? That stings, just sayin’.”

“Hey, you already asked me enough leading questions, I figured you knew it was a lost cause like I thought,” Zach defends himself. “Why didn’t you just hit us both with a clue by four?”

“Jeez, how much more of one did you need?” she retorts, and the microwave dings. “You two were drooling over each other at that party, and Chris messed that up. I didn’t think you’d ever get it on after that fiasco. And I _didn’t_ make everyone cancel yesterday. That’s just mean.”

“Christ,” Chris mutters, handing her a clean fork, “Enough. Food. Eat.”

Digging into the lasagna, Zoe chews the first bite, eyes widening as she moans at how good it is, even reheated.

Zach waggles a brow, turns to Chris and says one word. “Lasagna.”

“Mmm!” Zoe hums, pointing at it with her fork as she chews and swallows, “Oh my god, Chris, if I knew you could cook like this we’d have been married by now.”

“Hey!” Zach pouts, snaking Chris into his arms, back to front and hooking his chin over his shoulder. “I called dibs.”

“You did not,” Zoe counters through another bite, pointing at Chris with her fork. “Anyway, this guy? Too broodingly intellectual for me. I like to read as much as the next girl, but he’d be bored out of his mind trying to appreciate interpretive dance.”

“That’s not true!” Chris retorts. “I appreciate it, especially you dancing, I just can’t interpret it.”

“See? That.” Zoe shakes her head mysteriously.

“I don’t see anything,” Zach quips. “I guess I can’t appreciate it either.”

“Ha-ha,” Zoe says. “It never would have worked, that’s all I’m saying.” 

“Thank god for that,” Zach says against Chris’ shoulder, unwilling to let go, ”Hey Zoe, did you know Chris has 'Naughty Girl' set as your ringtone?"

She raises a sly eyebrow, "Does he know what you have set for his?"

Zach slaps a hand over his face. "Fuck."

"What?" Chris glances between them, "What is it?” He pulls his phone from his pocket, thumbing through his contacts, which is an easy slide all the way to the Z's.

"I've changed it several times," Zach says, then comes to realization, trying to catch Chris’ hands, “No, don’t!”

It’s too late. Zach’s phone goes off in his pocket with Beyonce's golden soprano: _Hit me like a ray of sun, burning through my darkest night, you're the only one that I want, think I'm addicted to your light._ Swearing, Zach yanks it out and slaps it silent, hand over his own mouth.

"Reasons why I knew he liked you," Zoe waggles her eyebrows at Chris, as Zach’s shoving the phone back in his pocket with a pink face. "Now if that isn't obvious, I don't know what else to tell you."

Ordinarily Chris would roll his eyes right out of his fucking head, bite off a retort about how he’d never call Zach when they are already in each other’s presence, so how would he possibly know? But all he can think of now is Zach saying he can hear his smile like he can see the sun in bed this morning, and his stupid heart does a stupid backflip and his lungs feel too big. He can’t stop smiling, reaching over to pull Zach’s hand from his face and tug him into a hug, hiding it against Zach’s sweater. “Hear that?”

Zach brings a hand up, thumbing the lines by Chris’ eyes. “So loud,” he whispers.

“Aww,” Zoe coos tenderly, pulling her cornbread apart.

Chris remembers himself and clears his throat, pulling back to the food. He feels exposed, but Zoe merely smiles, popping a bite. When she dances in place to express her enjoyment of his cornbread, he helps himself to a piece.

“Want some?” he offers to Zach, highly aware of the hand still stroking the back of his hip under his t-shirt. Zach takes the proffered bite, and sneaks his nose up behind Chris ear. “Don’t you eat too much,” he murmurs lowly, snaking his hand around to Chris’ belly.

“Shush,” Chris giggles, darting a glance up at Zoe. She winks, and he feels his face light up like a bonfire again. Zach has always been handsy, it’s nothing she hasn’t really seen, but the added element that she knows they’re fucking now makes it strange in the giddiest way. He feels comfortable, yet not, like there’s something on the periphery that he can’t quite make out.

“Oh my god,” Zoe finally leans back, pushing her nearly empty plate back an inch. “Real food. Don’t tell—”

“—Alejandro,” Chris mutters, gathering the food to put back away, picking off pieces of turkey as he goes and tossing a few to Noah. “We can tell him where he can shove his quinoa, huh, buddy?” Noah wags, gleefully drooling for more.

“You can tell him where he can shove a plastic chair while you’re at it.”

Zoe follows Zach to the living room, the pair of them chattering about a standing appointment at the hair salon that is weird this month because of the holiday, and by the time Chris has finished cleaning up, Zoe has her coat back on, intent on leaving them be.

She bends over the back of the sofa, planting a kiss on Zach’s hairline, wiping a smudge of lipstick off, “I’ll see you later. Maybe. If you’re not otherwise occupied.”

“Maybe,” Zach grins, his head tipped back.

“Chris,” Zoe tilts her head decisively, winding her scarf, “Walk me out.”

Shoving his bare feet haphazardly into his sneakers, he follows her lead, out the door and down the stairs. A heavy, cold chill settles over him without his own jacket, a dread he can’t quite explain. The suddenness of Zoe’s visit brought his new reality back into sharp focus. In the park he still felt insulated, like the bubble he and Zach had been in was thick and impenetrable. Now it’s fleeting and tenuously thin.

When she pivots on the sidewalk below and gives him an appraising look, “Well.”

He aims a breath of laughter at his shoes. “You really didn’t make everyone cancel.”

She raises her brows, “No.”

“Sorry. I’m an ass.”

She just shakes her head, “If I find out someone did, we’ll have words. Anyway, I didn’t think you’d ever actually…” she tapers off, giggling.

He darts a look back at her and snorts. “I didn’t either. I…” he leaves that hanging too, frowning and looking away.

“You okay?” she asks.

He surprised by such a question, and answers thoughtlessly. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Her face is skeptical, and he shrugs, trying to find the answer she’s looking for. “I’m good. I’m kind of… scared to death, but I’m—”

Zoe stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Honey, we talked about this.”

“I know, but that was hypothetical, wasn’t it?” he blurts against the exposed nerve she landed on. “Now he’s up there and I can barely even think straight when he touches me and…” he blushes belatedly as she smothers a grin. “Shush. This is serious.”

“It is,” she nods, schooling her features.

“It’s just… I don’t want to mess up and I _can’t_ lose him the way they all go and… god, I’ll have to tell my parents, my sister—”

“Hey,” she brings his face back to center, waiting until he takes a breath. “It’s only been, what, a day? One day.”

He blows out the air in his lungs. “One day.”

“Give it time,” Zoe tells him firmly. “You’re gonna make mistakes. You’re gonna mess up. He’s gonna mess up. If this is all meant to be, you’ll forgive each other, you’ll work it out.” She wraps her arms around him, “Just do what you’ve always done for him, okay? Be his sunshine.”

Chris can’t help but laugh at that as she hugs him fiercely and then pulls away.

She looks him over again, raising her chin with that strong bearing, projecting her confidence. “Tell me you’re happy, though. Right now, forget about tomorrow. Tell me he’s good to you.”

“Jesus, Zoe,” he shakes his head, pushing his hands in his pockets. “I’m happy. He’s… amazing.”

“Good.” Then she looks at him again, sternly sidelong, “Now tell me you’re gonna be good to him.”

He cringes, “Aagh.”

“Christopher.”

“I know, you’ll kill me,” he says, “I’ll be good. I’ll make him happy.”

Smiling, Zoe reaches up to pat his cheek, “See? That’s all you need. Hold onto now for a little while longer, okay? Whatever comes later hasn’t happened yet. Anyway, anybody tries to mess with my boys, they face me.”

“I don’t doubt you for a second,” he responds dutifully, kissing her cold hand.

“You better not,” she giggles and swats at him, “Now get that ass back up there. Go!”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm sorry this took so long to finish and post this chapter! Life has been lifey, I got in a destructive self-doubt loop, wrote other things that weren't as scary, etc. Writing is hard. Finishing things is really hard.
> 
> That said, this fic is coming to a close. There will be two short chapters to wrap up and put a bow on it after this one. They are already written and I will post them within this month, no more long waits.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it!

Chris rouses when Zach gets out of bed, the happy panting and jingle of tags telling him Noah's up and ready to pee. He feels Zach tuck the blankets back around him, fingers tracing from his shoulder to his jaw and then lips replacing them at his temple. In the stillness after he and the dog are gone, Harold's warm purring against his side lulls him back to warm, half-conscious bliss.

They'd relocated to Zach's apartment to give the kitty some company, a need for fresh sheets and, Zach had insisted, to give his big toe a rest from being whacked against Chris' dresser every time he made his way into the bedroom. He’ll make a point to move it a few inches to the left when they go back.

But right now, he’s in Zach's bed, where he'd been when he'd first come to realize what this was really all about. He turns his face into the pillow, inhaling that familiar oak-and-earth scent and smiles to himself. Did Zach really spend all those months lying in this bed, thinking about him too? Survey seems to say yes.

When he hears Zach come back inside, he stays still, curled up with the cat and keeps his eyes closed. He can identify the sound of Noah trotting around the rest of the apartment, nails clicking on the kitchen linoleum. The sound of a pull-top can has Harold stretching and hopping over him to pad out of the room. There’s the scrape and metallic clatter of Zach putting food in the dog bowl, the crunch-scoot of Noah pushing it across the kitchen floor as he eats. He hears Zach stop off in the bathroom next door to the bedroom; peeing, toilet flushing, water running as he washes his hands. He can just make out the compression of carpet fibers under Zach's feet as he reenters the bedroom, the shush of whatever soft clothing he'd put on being discarded. He can feel the blankets lift behind him, the dip of the mattress, a warm exhalation on his neck and—

"SHIT, you're freezing!” he shrieks and arches to escape the icy hand sliding up his side.

Giggling, Zach wraps his long cold arms around him anyway as Chris squirms and wriggles, "Well, maybe you should warm me back up.”

“Gyah!” Chris squeals, caught as Zach rolls on top. 

He stops struggling at Zach catching his flailing arms to pin them down to the mattress. He’s heavy, and it’s starting feel familiar, being in this position. Zach’s expression is greedy and yet sweet, a content smile on his stubbly face and his bangs flopping down to brush against Chris’ own forehead and cheeks. Those deep eyes blink and never focus, soft and beautiful as ever. Chris concedes, relaxing fully into the mattress underneath, Zach’s skin warming quickly against his own. He twists his hands free and pulls him down to capture his mouth, humming into it as Zach responds with enthusiasm.

Last night had been more of the same, talking and touching, laughing, eventually bringing each other off with hands and mouths. It’s fun, reawakening these old feelings, this attraction to masculinity he’s suppressed for years—why this man in particular turns him on. Chris enjoys it, but he still wants more. He can tell Zach’s holding back, being cautious, and he understands why, but at the same time he wants everything Zach can give him.

Running his palms down the muscles of Zach’s back, he tries to maneuver his own legs apart, willing Zach to drop between them and give him the full contact he craves. Zach resists, resolutely straddled with his long legs just outside of Chris’ thighs. His ass is round and perky under his briefs, and Chris huffs to feel the muscle clench beneath his fingers as Zach concedes to a little swivel where their pelvises angle together. Not nearly enough, and he whines into Zach’s mouth.

“Let’s go for a run,” Zach says as he pulls back.

Chris blinks his eyes open in surprise. “What? Right now?”

“Yeah. Let’s run and then get coffee,” Zach dips down to kiss once more, quick and firm and then he’s off. He pulls his sweatpants back on and digs around in his dresser drawers, leaving Chris exposed and grasping on the bed.

“But it’s November,” he pouts royally, sitting up to swing his feet to the floor. Zach’s got a mischievous smile on his face as he holds out some sweats for Chris to wear. Sighing, he swipes them, pushing his feet into the grey cotton and reaching for his t-shirt from the floor as Zach zips up a hoodie. “Almost December now.”

Snickering at what is surely Chris’ California thermometer, Zach shakes his head and comes close, finding his arms to rub vigorously. “The sun is out. It’s getting warmer by the minute, and you’ll warm up fast when you run. We haven’t gone for like a month. I miss it and you fed me lasagna.” He pulls another hoodie from his closet and holds it out. “Come on.”

Chris complains liberally about the chill on the way to the park, but once they start and get up to speed, he admittedly does warm up. Of course he does, Zach keeps him on his toes, long legs beating a fast pace that Chris has to keep up with in order to watch the path. They go for over an hour, making a few circuits of the park before heading up the street to their favorite coffeeshop.

The coffee is hot and strong, finishing the job of waking Chris up as they share a slice of lemon-blueberry bread.

“Let’s go to a movie,” Zach says, out of the blue.

“Today?”

“Yeah,” Zach licks moist crumbs from his fingers, “This is a big movie weekend, isn’t it? It’s almost eleven. We can go home, shower, and then catch an early matinee.”

Chris knows Zach occasionally enjoys the cinema experience, likes the surround sound even at theaters that don’t have audio description headsets, so he shrugs and agrees. He’s only a little put-out when Zach suggests they shower at their own respective apartments—to save time and get appropriate changes of clothes.

After the movie, Zach convinces him to strip his bed and cart a load of clothes down to the complex laundry room, and then they take Noah out for a walk around the park while it cycles. With the months of Chris’ training, the dog is becoming more or less well-behaved when Zach walks him now, even leaving a squirrel he’d seen skitter across the grass several meters away with little more than a whine as they walk the path they’d jogged earlier in the day. His eyes are repeatedly drawn to Zach’s profile, to the silky hair fluttering across his forehead, their hands clasped together between them, relaxed and happy, the tip of his nose is a little pink from the chilly breeze.

He gets it, what Zach’s doing, keeping them busy all day. This whole thing has happened so fast, and already feels substantially more serious than most of his wayward relationships. With the way things went yesterday—which he’s now a little embarrassed about—Chris is already doing his usual ‘whatever you want, babe’ thing he does, up until whatever it is he thinks his partner wants is not actually what they want at all. He’s probably never going to figure that out. Maybe he needs to learn not to be a push-over, learn to demand some things for himself. Hell, he thinks, maybe he’s always just been a naturally passive kind of guy, so demanding that Zach fuck him yesterday was already forging more than one newfound path. One he didn’t get. He can kind of see Zach’s side of it, though, making them wait, doing regular things today, just being together the way this is supposed to go. Maybe he’s giving Chris this time to think. Maybe the fucker is just stretching out the anticipation because he can. Maybe he’s anxious too. Not just about the sex, but everything else. 

Chris wonders if this can really last, just like this. He can be realistic, he knows he’s caught up in the honeymoon mentality right now. Come Monday they’ll both have to go back to work, Zach at home and Chris at the bookstore. Next year, he’ll start a student teaching internship, eventually applying for substitute and full positions, make another big leap into the unknown. The future feels so wide open, and suddenly, he’s thinking about sharing it with Zach. He’s going to have to tell his parents, something he’s managed to avoid for twenty some-odd years. Jesus, it’s nuts how entirely things have changed in the space of a couple of crazy days. It’s a precarious cliff he wants to approach with caution and fling himself over without a thought, all at the same time.

They head back to Chris’ to finish off the laundry. He whines about folding, but Zach insists, single-mindedly keeping him on task until the basket of clothes is done and put away. As Zach takes the clean throw blanket out to the sofa, Chris remakes his bed, all the while imagining how he’ll drag Zach back in here and make a point of messing those sheets up again. He’s waited all day, and he didn’t even jerk off in the shower earlier… but when he heads out to the main room, Zach’s phone goes off, this time an old Hollies song as the ringtone.

"Hey Joe," Zach answers it, "You back already?" He pauses, listening. "No, I ate with friends, it was fine." His brows drop. "Yeah, you know what, I'm sort of busy, though. I am. I am, jeez!" he bites his lip against a secret smile, "No, something just came up, and I'm sort of spending the weekend. Um. On it."

Chris smothers a giggle, turning to the fridge for a gulp of juice. Zach grins widely, facing him as he keeps talking. "No, it's not work. Fuck you, I do other stuff besides work and see you."

There's clearly coercion happening as he watches Zach’s face. "It isn't a secret, exactly," he gives a dramatic sigh, "Jesus, I'm spending some time with Chris, okay?" There's a long pause, and Zach is smiling that adorably bashful smile of his, leaning back against the sofa arm with the phone pressed to his ear, jiggling his foot. "Yeah. We, um. It kind of just happened. I'm fine, Joe. No, of course not! God, you're such an asshole! He's a sweetheart. Yes, because he's always been a sweetheart to me." 

Chris gnaws at his own lip, blushing a little. Zach knows Chris is hearing his end, he’s not trying to keep the conversation private, but it still feels a bit like eavesdropping. Especially considering it's Joe he's talking to, learning the specific nature of their new relationship status.

"No, you don't have to—" Zach grumbles, "You know what, I hate you. Next time you meet someone I'm going to crawl up their ass for you and run a background check, like that even works. Joe, _no_." He shakes his head with a huff, holding the phone out in Chris' direction. "He wants to talk to you."

“Uh,” Chris freezes. Joe's a protective sonofabitch.

"Put him on speaker, Zach," issues tinnily through the speakers.

Zach grudgingly does, setting the phone on the kitchen counter between them, "Issue your dire warnings for my virtue, dickface, the floor is yours."

"Chris," says Joe's deep voice from the phone, dripping with intention.

"Um. Hi." Chris squeaks and clears his throat. Zach giggles and reaches his hand over the counter to wind their fingers together.

"I'm assuming you remember our little agreement,” Joe intones.

"I think so," Chris answers, watching Zach's eyebrow quirk at that statement.

"You're also contractually obligated to take me and your new boyfriend out for a drink so I can reassert the terms of that agreement in person.”

“Wait, now, I don't remember signing anything.”

"Particularly so I can grill your ass on the rest of your intentions and hover in that imposingly elder brother fashion that makes your dick remember as well. How about tonight?”

Chris squirms, "Um, this is kind of new? So—"

"You realize you're the first boyfriend of his that’s in the same state for me to harass in a long time?" The glee in Joe's voice is audible. "I have plans and a consanguine right."

“Okay, fuck, _consanguine_? Really?"

"Speaking of which, have you told Mom the happy news?"

Zach’s eyes go wide, "Jesus, could you at least give us a week to, maybe, I dunno, settle with this ourselves? Don't you dare tell Mom anything yet. I will kill you."

"Uh-huh. You and whose eyeballs?"

"I have procured a set, actually. I'm told they're like a pool on a sunny day."

"Aw, well isn't that just the cutest, bro. I also do wedding photography."

"Goodbye Joseph, it's been fucking fun," Zach says, and slaps the screen to hang up on him, laughing. "He's incorrigible."

Chris rubs at his hair with a wary grin, "He's kind of scary, you know? From my angle. From lots of angles." He comes around the counter and into Zach's space, “Hold me, I'm scared."

"He's harmless as long as you don't piss him off,” Zach pulls him in, burying his smile in Chris’ neck.

“Yeah, and what if I have already? Because he’s got like forty pounds of muscle on me and a short fuse when it comes to you,” Chris jokes. Mostly.

“I told you, he likes you,” Zach nuzzles against his ear, fingertips worming under clothes to find skin, turning to find lips. “What is this little agreement anyway?”

“Nothing,” Chris murmurs against his mouth. “He gave me some ultimatums awhile back. Scary ones.”

“Yeah,” Zach snorts softly, hands coming up to hold Chris’ face, “He likes you.”

Just as Chris tips back in to claim his mouth with determination, the text reader voice from Zach’s phone pipes up: “ _Joe Quinto says… the Tav in thirty? Bet I’ll beat you there._ ”

Zach sighs softly into Chris’ mouth, hands sliding to his shoulders. “What do you say, hm?”

Chris grumbles, tipping his forehead to Zach’s. He’d much rather convince Zach to take him back to that freshly made bed, but Joe’s laid down his expectations, it’s not like they can refuse.

 

Their neighborhood pub is not quite bustling, but perhaps gaining as people trickle in for the early evening rounds and holiday weekend football game analyses from the TV screens. Chris easily spots Joe at the bar, raising his glass on sight and motioning them over to a nearby booth.

A server approaches as they scoot into one side together with Joe opposite, delaying the inevitable while they order drinks—a microbrew for Zach and a whiskey for Chris. Joe orders a plate of potato skins and a refill on his stout before she moves away, and then leers across at them, at Chris particularly. “So, look at this!”

“What am I looking at?” Zach quips, bringing his hand up to the back of Chris’ neck.

“Fresh meat,” Joe gives a cheshire grin. “I’m excited, are you excited?”

Zach rolls his eyes and sasses back, “You know, you’re not nearly as intimidating as you seem to think.”

“No? I think we should ask your boyfriend.”

“I am sufficiently terrified, your work here is done,” Chris proclaims as sardonically as possible. Joe Quinto’s game has never worked on him, but then there wasn’t any real cause before today. Most of him knows this is all a front for sizing him up in a new capacity with a large helping of friendly ribbing, assuming Zach is correct that Joe likes him. Still, Chris doesn’t want to get on his shit list, not now.

“Excellent!” Joe says as their drinks arrive. “Thanksgiving’s kind of weird for a holiday kindled romance, though, I gotta say. You guys sure went for the awkward stories to recount at Christmas angle. Oh, and all of this is going on Prettyboy’s tab,” he points Chris out to the server as she sets down the sizzling plate of potato skins before turning back, “Did you want some of these?”

Chris just shakes his head, laughing at Joe’s twinkling, shit-eating expression. The balls on this guy…

“Speaking of which, do recount Thanksgiving in Appalachia for us,” Zach aptly changes the subject.

“Oh, get this,” Joe speaks around a cheesy bite. “So I’m shooting this backwoods Thanksgiving-slash-family-reunion, or supposed to be backwoods, despite the fact that most of this family has basically moved on up to, I dunno… Martha Stewart’s staff or something, which is why they flew my ass all the way out there instead of hiring one of say two hundred locals with the same skillset. Anyway, so this catering spread is fucking beautiful, out in the middle of these woods where the leaves are still clinging and there’s patches of driven snow, and this log cabin straight out of Veranda magazine, and everything about it is picturesque, okay? Everything except the patriarch of the family, who’s is this straw-hat, moonshine sippin’, toothless old fart in over-alls because ain’t nobody gonna get Gramps to put on any fancy clothes since he dun married ol' dearly departed Bettie Jo. And he’s got this massive, drooly, _fuck-ugly_ dog. Like, picture if Hooch and Cujo had a mutant baby and it melted, that’s this dog.”

Chris listens to the story, guffawing into his whiskey as it plays out with the dog eventually stealing an entire ham from the catering table, the whole party chasing after it, and Gramps laughing his ass off, Joe snapping photos of the whole thing. He has to give credit to a fellow English major; Joe is a good storyteller, at least in between shoving potato skins into his mouth. 

It’s odd how similar and yet how completely, vastly different the Quintos' are from each other. Zach is fastidious and economic with his space beside Chris, where Joe is scruffy and spread out widely across his own bench. Zach is rarely quick to anger, but work him up to it and he can be vicious, where Joe is seemingly all bark with no real bite. Zach eats his own wedge of potato between swallows of beer, not particularly delicately, but somehow with more grace than Joe’s stuffing one in his mouth after the other. Chris consigns himself to only a couple between sips of whiskey.

“Remind me to show you the pictures next time you’re over. This fuckin’ dog with a ten pound honey-baked in its mouth, it’s classic,” Joe finishes. It strikes Chris that he means to show him specifically; Zach has no real use for his brother’s chosen career path. Maybe Joe does have a little faith in him, after all?

“Okay, I have to pee,” Zach announces, lifting his empty glass as a signifier. “Where am I going?”

“To the left and down a hallway, second door,” Chris says, just as Joe talks over him: “Three o’clock off the table, through an arch and then right. Third door. The second is a closet.”

Zach stands, pausing to unfold his cane with an amused headshake, “Joe, be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Joe deflects, grinning murderously across the booth as Zach leaves them alone. Clearly, this is the moment he’s been waiting for.

Fuck. Is it weird to want to follow your boyfriend to the bathroom of a bar without any actual intention of blowing him because his older brother is giving you the hairy eyeball? Chris laughs under his breath, turning his tumbler on its coaster as he feels a blush rise to his face. “Jesus.”

“So,” Joe says, taking a deep drink of his stout. “I guess you decided to hop the fence after all.”

With a shake of his head, Chris answers, “I was always sort of straddling it to begin with.”

“Grass is always greener, eh?” Joe snorts. “Is it?”

Chris chuckles, scrubbing his hair, “It’s a different shade of green. It’s always springtime.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Joe grimaces a laugh into his beer, fixing Chris again with more seriousness. “So, what now?”

Chris lifts his shoulders, remembering what Zoe said. “It’s only been a couple days, I… I don’t know.”

Joe eyeballs him some more, shaking his head with a sigh, “You know, part of being a photographer is that you get pretty good at reading people. How they really feel versus what they say. Zach’s been wild about you since he met you. Maybe it took you forever to catch up, but you’re pretty mushy too. I’ve known that for awhile.” Joe puts down his glass, “Neither one of you would admit it for shit because you were scared. So what I really want to know is what you’re thinking now that you’ve got him. What you’re thinking about a month from now. A year. Hm?”

“Jesus,” Chris repeats, eyes darting after Zach. “We just… I don’t know what you want me to say. This is kind of brand new territory,” he looks away again, “Do I want to be with him in a month? In a year? Of course I fucking do, man, I love him.”

Joe blinks, heavy brows rising and Chris inhales sharply at what just fell out of his mouth. He’s usually careful about doling those words out, but he knows in his gut it’s true. He fell for Zach a long time ago, fell about as hard as he ever has. He darts his tongue across his lips nervously as he stares at the thin layer of liquid at the bottom of his glass, the hubbub of voices around them filling the silence.

Joe appraises him from across the table. “Back before Dad died, he told me something,” he finally says, stroking his scruffy chin. “I was probably fifteen or so, getting in fights on the regular, you know, just trying to find my place. Zach was a snot-nosed little pain in my ass, as far as I was concerned. We were gonna go down to the corner shop on our bikes and buy some TV dinners. Dad took me aside in the driveway when he gave me the money, and he told me, he said, ‘Everything that’s shit for you right now, your brother is going to go through. For everyone who bullies you, there will be two for him. Every punch you have to throw for yourself, you’ll have to take another for your kid brother. Every girl who breaks your heart, you’re going to remember when he comes to you with his own in pieces’,” Joe pauses, his sharp blue eyes finding Chris again. “Dad said, ‘Zach won’t always see you looking out for him, but it’s your job to be there when I’m not’.” He frowns, shakes his head. “We ended up taking him to the hospital the first time that night, so I never forgot that. What he said to me.”

Heat prickles at Chris’ eyes, and he blinks it away. He never thinks about this stuff. He’s the baby of his own family, and sure, Katie used to dress him up like a princess, paint his nails and put pink barrettes in his hair, but screaming fights across the hall about trivial teenage shit notwithstanding, she’s always had his back when he needs her. Knowing Joe comes not just from being a typical older brother, but having this sort of responsibility laid on his shoulders by their dad, that’s heavy.

“I can’t even begin to understand what it’s been like,” Chris pauses, finding his words and hoping they’re what Joe wants to hear, “Fuck knows I’m not perfect, but you’ve got to know I don’t have any nefarious agenda now, right?”

“Great,” Joe grumbles, “How do I know you aren’t going to break his heart now you got your taste?”

Chris grins and rubs his palm over it, “Well, I’ve only had a little taste. I want the whole cake. I want the bakery.”

Joe rolls his eyes with an amused snort, “Christ, these metaphors with you.”

“I really, really like cake. I could eat it everyday. Sweet, yummy, creamy—”

“Okay, dude, no, I really don’t need specifics.”

Chris sobers, fixing his eyes on Joe. “I mean it, though. He’s my best friend. I told you before, I’ll do anything to make my friends happy. And… you’re right. I am scared. I’m scared of fucking it up, of not being a better person than whoever he’s had before.” He waves haplessly toward the bathrooms, “I want this to work. I’ll do anything for him, you have to know that.”

Joe looks him over for a long minute, hand tapping at the table beside his pint. “I dunno. It creeps me out to think Zach finally found himself a decent guy,” he grumbles, “I can’t not look at you a little sideways, but…” He lifts his beer and tilts it. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“Or else?” Chris asks, lifting his own glass and clinking them with a smile. 

Joe’s smile widens like a shark, “Exactly.”

“Second person to threaten me with death in as many days,” Chris says, tipping back the last swallow of whiskey in the glass, “I’m on a roll.”

“Hah. Just wait ’til you deal with Mom.”

 

Back at home, and despite his bitching all day about the cold, Chris stays outside with Zach while he walks Noah around the courtyard, and when he gloves up with poop bags to finish the job. Inside in the warmth of Zach’s place, he leans against the counter as Zach washes up, taking in for the hundredth time the ease with which he moves around his kitchen. Everything has its place, even if it’s somewhat unorthodox; Zach knows to find Noah’s food bowl wedged against the corner of the stove where the dog pushes it every morning, takes the raw dog food from the freezer to nuke on a plate while he washes the bowl out in the sink and refills the water dish. He finds the tupperware of kitty kibble—not in its regular spot in the cabinet, but left out on the countertop the previous night, because hey, Zach can forget to put things away as much as anyone provided interesting enough distraction. His hands are deft in every move they make, dexterous despite their size, and unhurried, having followed this same routine every evening since he moved here, into Chris’ neighborhood and life.

With the menagerie happily munching away, Zach turns in his direction, aware of where he is in the room without Chris moving or speaking at all. When he holds his hand out, palm up, expectant and certain in invitation, Chris takes it, that familiar buzz of anticipation reawakening with Zach’s fingertips slipping under the hem of his sweatshirt to tease at his skin, both cool and burning all at once.

“You hungry?” Zach murmurs low between them.

“Hm-mm.”

“Tired?”

“Nope.”

“Good,” the half-smile that’s been playing at the corners of Zach’s mouth widens, leaning into kiss, chaste and retreating in a tease that Chris willingly chases; he knows exactly what questions he’s asking between the lines, knows exactly what answers Chris is giving.

Chris does flip on the light as Zach closes the door to his bedroom, because selfish as it might be, he wants to see this time. He can feel his own pulse thrumming when Zach’s fingertips skate up his arms and neck, along his jawline and cheeks, sweeping back into his hair to bring him close.

“You know what I like about you?” Zach says as he brushes their noses or foreheads or lips together, never fully kissing, “Your patience.”

Chris closes his eyes as he continues, fingers sliding up and down his sides, “You don’t try to direct or do things yourself to make everything go faster.” He pauses, his voice a low purr, “When it takes me longer to finish eating, or find something I need, or get around some obstacle. You wait for me.”

“Not always,” Chris says, thinking of yesterday. “Sometimes I get in a big damn hurry.”

Zach pulls back a little, conceding with a grin. “Yeah, sometimes. But mostly, you’re willing to let me figure out where I’m at and how to handle myself. I appreciate that.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who can’t handle himself,” Chris agrees, “And others.”

Zach rumbles a laugh, bringing a full grin to Chris’ face. He lifts his arms to let Zach push his shirt up, resists the urge to grab the back and yank it off himself, letting Zach do it. He leans into those broad hands spanning his chest and down his stomach.

Reaching up, he smoothes his own fingers over the planes of Zach’s face. He’d shaved earlier, now only sandpapery on his cheeks and down his neck as Chris pulls apart the buttons of his shirt. “But sometimes, I like to do some handling too,” he grins, abandoning the open shirt and reaching down for Zach’s fly. “For the sake of fair play.”

Zach’s eyebrow goes up, hands switching to Chris’ shoulders. “Hey, I never said I wasn’t equal opportunity or anything.”

Smirking, Chris drops to his knees and tugs Zach’s pants down enough to swallow him. He’s not quite hard yet and Chris can take him all the way in before that changes.

“Whoa!” Zach’s arms flail out as he sways in place, groping for something solid to right himself and finding nothing but Chris’ head, “Okay, wow, balance though, I lose it sometimes when I… ah, get hard really fast!” 

Pulling off with a snort, Chris reaches up to steady him, guiding him backward to the edge of the bed until he sits, lifts his hips for Chris to pull his jeans, underwear and socks the rest of the way off. He stays upright for a few moments as Chris presses his thighs apart and engulfs him again, before he drops backward onto his elbows and pants, “Oh my god.”

Chris loves this. Loves the feeling of Zach’s cock filling out in his mouth, the texture of the head when he slips his tongue between it and the velvety skin there, loves the twitch and throb and musky taste he gets in return, loves how Zach reaches to comb his fingers through his hair and tug. He loves the lewd sound the saliva makes in his mouth when he works Zach into his cheek and weighs his balls in his palm, loves the chest-deep groan Zach lets out when he drops fully back to the mattress, arms outspread like he’s offering himself up in supplication, stomach heaving breaths and tightening with each affirmation and attempt to lift his hips from his toes on the floor. And he loves how hard he gets himself for the privilege of seeing it, of thinking _I did that to him_ , dropping his free hand down to unzip his own fly and rub his palm over his dick with a moan.

“Okay. Okay stop,” Zach gasps above him, “Nnstopstop. Ah! You gotta—” He reaches down and pries him off. Chris growls his dissent, breathing hard himself. “Gimme a sec,” Zach laughs breathlessly, pushing himself up the bed to the pillows to sprawl and to palm himself, hissing through his teeth. “Jesus, if this is you out of practice…”

Wiping his chin, Chris loses the rest of his clothes and crawls up, smiling down at Zach all disheveled and almost naked but for the shirt still clinging to his arms. Dropping a knee between Zach’s thighs, he rubs himself into Zach’s hip and tilts to reach his mouth. Zach tugs him in, finally letting him kiss hard and deep with swollen lips, and Chris waggles his eyebrows, “Just you wait ’til I practice more.”

Laughing, Zach’s hands skate down his back and fit themselves over each half of his ass, making Chris hum into his ear and arch his back to push his butt up into them. “Mm, you want that?” 

Zach growls in response, squeezing as he bites aggressively into the kiss, then soothes with his tongue. “So, no one since college, huh?” he asks when they part, one of his fingers stroking lightly up and down his crack.

“Nope.”

There’s another pause before Zach asks, less teasing and more curious, “How about in general? Recently?”

Chris stills, thinking back to that redefining week in the summer, and the subsequent attempts to distract himself. A surprisingly long time ago, in fact. “July,” he mumbles into Zach’s shoulder. “When you were gone.”

Zach’s breath stutters at that, his expression pensive, his brows drawn over vacant, contemplative eyes towards the ceiling. Chris lifts his head a little more, “I was having a fit of denial. A river of it, even. And not here,” he insists, indicating Zach’s apartment, his bed.

“No, it’s not that,” he says quickly, clearing his throat. “I, uh, did too, that week. In New York.”

Chris pulls back farther, warily. Zach has roots in New York. Friends and acquaintances. Exes. “Who was it?”

Zach tightens his arms. “Just this guy I hooked up with a few times before. No one special.”

Chris drops his head back to Zach’s shoulder with a huff, annoyed at how his stomach twists. “So what’s _his_ ringtone?”

Zach wrestles him over on his back, “Nothing, I never even had his number.” He kisses hard before sucking and nipping down Chris’ neck. “He was always at this old bar we used to haunt. I shouldn’t have even done it. Wasn’t worth it anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He committed a most grievous sin, you know,” Zach murmurs, lifting his face, “He wasn’t you.”

Chris still harrumphs grumpily as Zach mouths down his chest, nuzzling the sparse hair there, but he soon lifts up to wriggle the rest of the way out of his shirtsleeves and toss it out of the way. Following Chris’ arm down to his fingers, he lifts the hand to kiss his palm and then hold it against his chest. “Hush. I seriously doubt some girl reminded you of me.”

“Different,” Chris rumbles, watching his own hand brush that soft chest hair from under his eyelids. “I was adamantly denying I was falling for my best friend.”

Zach inhales, squeezing his eyes shut and braces his forehead against their laced fingers for a moment.

“Hey,” Chris murmurs, tugging, “What?”

He only gives a tiny shake of his head. “Just, you.”

“Just me.”

Zach waves their entwined hands between them. “I just wish I wasn’t… so afraid. It’s so stupid that I didn’t say anything before now.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Chris says.

“Maybe,” Zach agrees, “But I’ve spent all this time telling myself I can’t be scared to go outside or move across the country or…or cross the street everyday, but I still managed to wuss out of telling you how I felt every time I made it to your house unscathed.”

Chris frowns, “Zach, you’ve lived in Manhattan, you’ve crossed way scarier streets than ours.”

“Doesn’t matter. Every time, every street, I could get hit. I’m still scared. It could always be the last time,” he says, with a laugh, “You’d think having this kind of self-awareness would make a guy learn to admit he’s in love before the next speeding bus comes along.”

Chris can’t contain his thrill at hearing Zach admit that. “Maybe now it’ll be easier to… you know, face that shit. All this stupid stuff we’re afraid of. You and me.” He reaches up to stroke his face, “Don’t you ever get hit by a bus, okay? Now I have expectations.”

Zach laughs bashfully, “Right. I’ll be sure to look both ways.” 

“I’m serious,” Chris laughs in spite of himself and pulls him in to kiss, making him laugh harder until his giggles squirt out between their lips.

“Me too.”

Their laughter finally subsides with Zach smoothing a hand through his hair and kissing him deep and slow, his weight and warmth heavy, grounding and so necessary. “I want you,” Chris breathes between them.

Zach brushes his fingers over his face, feeling his expression, “You nervous?”

“No.” It’s not a lie. Right now, Chris feels warm and cherished and ready to give Zach just about anything he wants.

“I am,” Zach whispers, like a secret.

Chris strokes his hair back where it falls to his brow. “I trust you.”

“Ooh, now that doesn’t put the pressure on me at all.”

“Feel free to apply some of that pressure to my ass, then.”

“So very poetic, Christopher,” Zach snorts, kissing him one more time and lifting up, “Turn over?”

Chris grins again, “Gonna look some more?” He flips onto his stomach with his skin tingling, folding his arms under the pillow and turning his head so he can still see Zach from the corner of his eye.

Zach slithers over him, his breath setting off a shiver of goosebumps up Chris’ spine, his lips hovering over skin as his voice goes decidedly dark and promising. “I’ll never be done looking at you.”

Every inch of Chris’ body is hypersensitive to Zach’s fingers and mouth drawing across his skin. He pauses here and there, tracing the planes and shapes of him in ways no one has lingered over before. He inhales at Zach’s fingers brushing across the largest of his moles on his side, exploring its raised edges. He’s surely come across dozens of them in the last couple of days, his fingers tracing them without comment.

“It’s a mole,” he explains, clearing his throat. Most of his previous partners had been squeamish about the larger ones, on top of the generalized locker room teasing he’d endured in his high school baseball days. “I have them all over.” 

“Mm-hm, everyone does,” Zach murmurs, his sensitive fingertips finding and tracing others on his back and arms. Most are smaller and scattered, some raised and others flat, but apparently enough of a texture change for Zach’s sensitive fingertips to notice. He kisses over one such mark high on Chris’ shoulder, a smile in his words, “There’s braille on your skin, just for me. And even when I’ve read it enough to know it all by heart, I’d start again at the beginning and find something new.”

Chris pushes his grin into the pillow, warmth blooming in his chest. There’s never been a time when he’s liked his imperfections, until this moment. Now he fucking loves them.

It’s quiet while Zach keeps mapping those marks with his fingers and his lips, his pace achingly slow as he explores the sensitivity of muscles, seeking out what makes him twitch or gasp, before he finally descends all the way down Chris’ spine, counting vertebrae with kisses. When a teasing slip of his tongue descends to the very last tiny knob of his tailbone between his cheeks, Chris lifts his ass and a knee in invitation, breath coming faster at the mere promise of his touch there.

Zach snorts, scraping his teeth just lightly over the meat of one cheek before he lifts himself away. All the way away, off the bed, pushing Chris back down when he starts to follow. “Stay.”

He frowns petulantly, “Where are you going now?”

“Oh, I see how it is. Patience run out?” 

“Fuck yeah,” Chris whines, “Zach!”

“Relax,” Zach laughs and gives his ass a little smack, smoothing up to ruffle his hair. “If I don’t get supplies set up now, you’re going to be really grouchy when I stop to do it later. So be good and stay.”

Grumbling, he waits for Zach to go grab a couple of towels, then dig in his nightstand for the rest. His heart leaps at the very idea that they’re finally doing this, excitement and yeah, maybe a little apprehension zinging in his nerves.

Climbing back up behind him, Zach arranges things within reach. He grabs a spare pillow, draping it with a towel and encouraging Chris’ hips up to slip it underneath. Chris snickers as he settles over it, “Aren’t we preparing for the worst.”

“Hey, I remember somebody bitching about laundry earlier,” Zach retorts, a grin in his voice. He urges Chris’ thighs apart to settle between them, making him suck in a sharp breath as his fingers trace up the sensitive insides, thumbs tracing the creases beneath his cheeks and down to his balls.

“Oh,” Chris gasps into the pillow, feeling Zach’s breath again, warm on the back of his thigh. The instant he feels soft lips and a wet tongue, not even near his crack yet, his balls tighten and already he starts to leak against the towel. “Okay, you have a point,” he mutters.

“And here I thought you didn’t underestimate me,” Zach gives him a low, throaty laugh, big hands skating up to spread him apart. Chris barks a stunned noise as Zach licks wide and wet and firm over his hole, no hesitation at all. 

Oh, he’s forgotten this. Hell, he’s only had it done to him a bare minimum of times, a million years ago, and he’s only just recently rediscovered his ass as a sexual fantasy hot spot. Before he knows it, he’s biting the pillow to keep from shouting and trying not to hump the maddening soft-rough terrycloth beneath him. He feels Zach pause, one hand palming and squeezing one cheek as the other teases a path between his asshole and his balls, making him squirm and whine.

“Jesus, Chris, the sounds you make for me,” Zach mutters, teeth setting and tongue soothing again at the back of a thigh, panting hotly against him. Then he’s on him again, his tongue working him further open, deep and relentless, until Chris feels like he’s made of wax, sweating and melting under Zach’s mouth.

When he lets up, kissing his way up Chris’s back once again, Zach’s voice is husky. “You good?” he asks, his fingers sliding back down and stroking lightly up and down his his split-slick crack. 

“So fucking good,” Chris slurs, feeling Zach press an answering smile into his shoulder blade.

“You said you fingered yourself,” his voice is smoke and Chris nods, before he remembers to actually vocalize something like affirmation. “How many?”

“Just two.”

“Hmm,” is the vague response, those fingers still only petting and circling, too light and teasing.

“Zaaach,” Chris twists, wanting more. Zach relents, letting him wriggle onto his back so he can get to his mouth. He’s only slightly surprised by his own musky taste there, but doesn’t care once Zach groans deep into his mouth, his hand giving his cock a few blissful tugs before groping over the bedspread for the lube he’d set out earlier. Chris reaches down for himself, pressing his own two fingers over his wet hole, panting at how lax and open he already feels. 

“God, listen to you,” Zach hisses into another kiss, hand following Chris’ arm down and biting his lip at what he finds, “You want it so bad, don’t you.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, his voice raspy with how turned on he is. “Want you in me.”

It gets a reaction, Zach closing his eyes tight as he slicks his fingers. “You’ll get me in you, I promise. God, you sound so hot.” He moves back down and between his legs, pushing Chris’ hand up out of his way. “Take a breath, though, this is still going to take awhile.”

Chris sucks in air at the slightly chilly lube making him initially clench. It’s entirely different, someone else’s fingers here, but he’s soon relaxing back into the circling rhythm and inhales at the first push in, slow and careful.

“Need you to talk to me,” Zach murmurs, spreading his free hand over Chris’ tummy and kissing his thigh, “I don’t want to—”

“It’s good, doesn’t hurt,” he cuts off breathlessly, “More?”

Breathing a laugh into his skin, Zach complies, pushing in past his knuckle to the webbing of his hand, his other folded fingers putting pressure on his taint. Chris groans, feeling the weirdness of his insides being stroked making his nerves spark like live wires. “Fuck, Zach, come on,” he goads.

“I take back what I said about patience,” Zach draws out and is back with the slow, steady press of two fingers. “How ‘bout now, hm?”

It’s immediately overstimulating, but his body swiftly remembers this not-quite-discomfiting burn, still wired enough to tip toward pleasure as Zach crooks his fingers a certain way that makes Chris buck and gasp, “Ah! Okay, that. Do that. For awhile.”

Zach snickers, but his voice is dark. “You like this?” His fingers twist as they withdraw and push back in, like a slow heartbeat, in half-time with Chris’ own.

“Yeah.”

“You like me inside you?” 

“Fuck, Zach, yeah.”

“I like this too.” There are teeth nipping his inner thigh again, a groan, “Oh, I could get off on this. Just my fingers in you, so tight,” Zach’s word go rough and needy, “Those sounds you make.”

Chris realizes his eyes have fallen shut and opens them, Zach’s bedroom bringing some reality back, seeing Zach’s expression of taut concentration overlaid with thick desire. Zach doesn’t have the luxury of opening his eyes, and while Chris knows it’s a myth that Zach’s hands or ears or any other senses are any more sensitive than his own, he wonders if there’s something to it, if he could learn how to experience this with every fiber of his being. If he focuses, he swears he can feel every ridge of a knuckle, a short, smoothed fingernail, the way the two digits cross slightly as they gently twist into him. He takes a deep breath in and out, letting his hips rock with it.

He hears the snick of the lube cap again, feels a hint of coolness as Zach pulls his fingers out to spread more. “Another?” he asks.

“Can you just…?” Chris mumbles, still caught in the rhythm. He’s forgotten that emptiness too, the lack of what he’s denied himself all this time.

“Mm, I could,” Zach purrs, “But I won’t. I don’t wanna break it the first time I take it out.”

Chris laughs out loud before the pressure is back, smearing his giggles into a moan, and there’s much more of a stretch now. “Ah god,” he gasps. He never got to three fingers himself.

“Easy, easy,” Zach whispers, forehead braced against Chris’ thigh, “You okay?” 

He pants and nods, forgetting to speak again as he swears he can feel individual hairs on those knuckles inside. Zach’s other hand moves, searching until he finds one of Chris’, fisted the sheet at his side and laces them together. “Tell me.”

“’S a lot.”

“Mm-hm,” Zach responds, and then dips down to nuzzle in his groin, taking the head of his cock in his mouth. Chris’ eyes fly open again, groaning as he looks down his body at the sight. It’s a feedback loop, a twinge of too much for a wave of pleasure, soon ebbing fully into a heavy throb of want. He could probably come just from this, Zach’s fingers slowly pulsing inside him, his mouth mirroring a languid rhythmic suction over the flare of his head.

“Zach,” he pants, looking down and tugging their twined hands. “C’mere. Come up here.”

Zach leaves a kiss on his shaft, hastily wiping his fingers on the towel after he carefully withdraws and he crawls up to meet Chris’ mouth in a hard, deep kiss. Their skin is already slick as they meet, Chris wrapping arms and legs around him, pulling him tight and close.

“Want it like this?” Zach asks him, pausing to brush his fingers over Chris’ face again.

“Yeah,” he pants, “I wanna watch you fuck me.” Zach hums and goes back to kissing him, slower, deliberately backing off when Chris gets more demanding. Finally, he whines, “Anytime you wanna get on that.”

“Okay, okay,” Zach snorts, searching across the bed. “Help a guy out, then,” he sits up, holding out the condom. “Put this on me.”

Just that little request has Chris dialing himself back a little, understanding now what Zach had said about the lust haze. As many times as he’s dealt with this himself—and hey, he’s talented; he can do it drunk, fumbling in the dark, master of the old one-handed roll-down—he’s never actually put a condom on someone else.

Zach is rock hard, the head shiny and dripping, and he can’t resist sitting up to put his mouth on it again, earning a surprised hiss as he feels Zach’s hand fly to his hair. He's only allowed to suck for a moment before Zach pushes him off with a laugh. “Hey, I was under the impression you were in a hurry. You keep up that mouth and you’ll be waiting until tomorrow all over again.”

Giggling, Chris unwraps and rolls the condom down, grabbing for the lube and slicking him up just to watch Zach bite his lip. Zach’s hand curls around the back of his neck, eyes bright as he lays Chris back down, kissing him soundly before he kneels in close, adjusting the pillow beneath Chris’ hips and stroking up the back of his thighs to push them to his chest. 

The look on Zach’s face is something between deep concentration and giddiness as he reaches down, fingers gripping himself and bumping at Chris’ skin. “Help me do this,” he says, “This is one of those hand-eye coordination things I suck at.”

“Dick-ass coordination?” Chris snorts, reaching down to help guide him. It’s a little awkward, especially when Chris’ body isn’t quite as on board with this as he thought. “Your aim’s fine, just go—” Zach pushes and Chris yelps, grabbing for his hip to still him.

“Are you okay?”

“Bull’s eye,” he groans, and starts giggling.

“Oh my god, don’t laugh! I’ll come,” Zach gasps a little laugh himself.

Chris sucks in a breath and bears down. “Keep going.”

Zach plants a hand on the bed and finally, slowly pushes in, letting out a shivery exhale only when he’s bottomed out, bringing a hand back up to Chris’ cheek. Alarm registers on his features when he feels the tight clench of his jaw. “Chris?”

“Give me a minute,” he grits out, his whole body trembling as he wills himself to adjust.

“Talk to me, baby,” Zach murmurs, kissing him on his nose, his brow. “I need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” he wheezes. His body remembers, it’s just a sensory explosion, the feeling of Zach’s strong, solid body over and around and deep inside him, filling him up, so stretched and flayed open. He tries to loosen his grip on Zach’s shoulders, open his eyes to Zach’s face, seeing determination there as he makes each breath calm against Chris’ panting and twitching muscles.

Finally it starts to ease up, and Chris lets go a breathy groan as his body relaxes and accepts, allowing Zach to slide just a little further in, breathing a stunned “Oh god,” against his cheek. That’s all it takes.

Anchoring his heels behind Zach’s knees, he slides his hands down Zach’s back to his ass, urging movement until Zach cautiously pulls back a little and pushes in. Chris sucks in his breath through his teeth and gasps it out with each careful stroke, the pressure still so much, but it’s good.

He pulls Zach into a kiss, arching up into him. Groaning into his mouth, Zach picks up an already familiar rhythm, measured and deliberate, the way he does everything. He lifts up, bracing on an elbow to bring his free hand to Chris’ face, fingers reading the tension in his brow juxtaposed with the loll of his mouth, the flutter of his eyelids. Zach’s expression reflects the same feeling, heat and wonder, lips open and panting, pupils dilated wide though they see nothing. A lock of his hair sticks to the sheen over his forehead, and Chris reaches up to push it back. Zach automatically turns into the touch, seeking to kiss and nuzzle any skin he encounters. They don’t need words anymore.

He’s seen this Zach before. Maybe not exactly in this way, but every day they’ve known each other, with every conversation and every occurrence that has brought them closer together, he knows this Zach. Even if they were tiptoeing around how they felt about each other, Zach hasn’t had any other way of experiencing the world, experiencing his life without the necessary willingness to trust.

Now Chris understands why he wants this, craves it, in a way he’d never understood when he was younger and too caught up fearing the judgement of others. This is a level of intimacy he’s never quite felt on the other end of the equation. It’s allowing someone to see him so vulnerable, to hear him make these sounds he can barely hold back, knowing him inside and out. It’s the capacity to trust so blindly, the complete hand over of himself to another that he’s lost to time and bad experiences. Zach has to do this every single day, every time he takes Chris’ arm to let him lead the way, certain he will take him where he needs to go.

The headboard eventually makes contact with the wall, and Zach’s breath hitches as he slows, “Sorry.” But Chris shakes his head, pulls at him. “More like that, yeah,” he pleads, and Zach grins and kisses him hard and lets go of anymore restraint.

He has no idea how long that goes on, getting fucked through the bed and loving every second, answering every grunt Zach makes with his own, skin slapping together, fingers slipping as they try to grip and hold. It’s when Zach finally slows that he comes back to himself, seeing weariness and maybe even pain in the beautiful face above him.

“Hey, you okay?” he breathes, petting at Zach’s sweaty hair.

Zach huffs a laugh into his shoulder. “Shouldn’t I ask you that?”

“I’m fucking perfect,” Chris answers, wiggling around Zach’s cock deep in him just to feel it.

“You are fucking perfect,” Zach groans, lifts up briefly to raise a wry eyebrow, but he can’t hide a wince from Chris.

“You’re not okay,” he frowns.

“I’m fine,” he says with stutter in his breath. “Just… been awhile, obviously,” he drops his head heavily onto Chris’ shoulder, the rest of his weight following with fatigue. “You feel so good.”

Of course. Zach’s neck and back hurt sometimes, leftover pain from his accident. And Chris made him miss his massage, never mind how much they’ve been fooling around the last two days, with Zach doing most of the work. Chris nudges at his side, “My turn now.”

Rolling them over, he sacrifices keeping Zach firmly inside to reach up and get a couple of pillows comfortably behind him. Zach’s arms fall free, and he momentarily grasping and seeking purchase before they simply fall lax beside Chris’ knees with a moan as Chris reaches back, taking a deep bracing breath as he eases Zach’s cock back inside. He thinks again about how this isn’t really about who’s topping or bottoming, but trusting and taking care of each other. He’s not sure if he’s ever thought such a thing in the middle of sex before, and it makes him feel so much more full, beyond the physical.

The position is deep and intense, and he experiments with what sort of movement feels good. If he leans back, it’s too much pressure inside, and if he leans forward, he loses the depth he likes. Planting one hand on Zach’s chest, the other back on his thigh, he swivels his hips around, forward and then back, groaning because that’s it, that’s perfect.

He lets his hips glide back and forth, exponentially harder as he grows more confident, the sensation stronger, deeper, more exquisite. Zach’s cock hits that sweet spot on every plunge, shooting through his balls each time and making him groan every few breaths, his own dick flopping and jerking ridiculously against Zach’s belly. He briefly wonders how debauched he must look, and then smiles because it doesn’t fucking matter. When he closes his eyes, there’s only the hot rub of Zach’s skin on the back of his thighs, the ragged sounds of their breath, their rhythmic grunts and responding moans, the musky, dirty scent of sex, the feel of a drop of sweat running down his back and into the crack of his ass.

Zach’s hands are back, sliding up his thighs, around to feel the clench of his muscles, up to his chest and down, feeling his abs and pelvis sway, looking and seeing everything he is in this moment. His face is beautiful, eyes barely cracked, mouth open around heaving breaths, brows drawn together. Chris knows with certainty that if— _when_ Zach touches his cock, this all will be over far too soon, he loves this, loves Zach’s cock, loves Zach so fucking much.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, when Zach’s big hand finally does skim down to grasp him, first loosely, then with more purpose, giving him a firm, sweet, slicked fist to pump up into as he draws out and thrusts back. “Oh fuck, Zach, fuck, fuck—”

His balls tighten with each stroke, every breath, and he whines as he tries to hang on because this can’t be over yet but he’s going to explode, and then he does with a shout. One hand flies to cover Zach’s, keeping the pressure, his come streaking Zach’s belly and chest and their fingers.

Yet he fights to keep his eyes open through it, because the look on Zach’s face is transported. As his hand milks Chris, his hips shudder and jerk, he lets out a sound that’s almost a growl and a sob together. Chris has him so deep, so tight that he can feel the flutter of Zach’s release inside him, and his face—his eyes squeeze shut, his jaw clenches, and then all relax, mouth dropping open, eyes dark, blissful pools that swim and lashes spiked with moisture. The aftershocks at the sight are nearly painful, cock still jerking as he falls forward to kiss that soft, pliant mouth, feeling Zach struggle to kiss back.

A minute or two catching their breath and Zach braces a hand at his lower back, arching under him enough to slip out. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs at Chris’ bereft sound, nudging his thigh up to slide sideways so he can get the condom off. Chris can feel him grope around for a towel to wipe up the mess between them, and realizes he’s loathe to open his own eyes and face reality after all that. His body is buzzing with pleasure, warm all over but the air is pleasantly cooling the sweat on his skin, Zach’s fingers smoothing up and down his back, his arms, his hair as their breathing slows and evens out to peaceful content.

He can hear the distant sounds of the city outside, a tiny, curious mew from Harold outside the bedroom door, Zach’s breath as he inhales through his nose and then holds it. Lets it out slowly, but it shudders a little at the end.

Chris lifts his head in time to see Zach trying to keep another breath from giving him away, his eyes open blankly at the ceiling, glistening. “Hey,” he frowns, touching Zach’s cheek, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I just…” Zach sniffs, looking somewhat ashamed as a tear slips out, trickling down toward one ear, “I’d give anything to see your face right now.”

Chris catches it with a thumb, swiping it away and kissing the damp salty trail. He pulls the edge of the blanket over them, groping for Zach’s hand and bringing it up and press it to his own face.

“You see more of me than anyone ever has,” he murmurs, “Look all you want.”


	16. Chapter 16

It really figures JJ has stuck Chris with the end-of-the-year inventory while he’s in Cabo or wherever with his family for the holidays. He doesn’t mind though. It’s nearly five and they’re closing up early, Zoe’s downstairs ringing up the last few straggling shoppers. 

He doesn’t really know how long he’ll still be working at the bookstore. Student teaching will have him shifting his hours to evenings. Newbie teachers certainly don’t make much more than bookstore clerks, assuming he lands anything at all in the next couple of years. There are a lot of things changing in his life, and a lot at stake. It’s scary, pursuing several new paths at once, and it has him grasping at the familiar more tightly, that it can’t all be lost in a sharp gust of the wind he’s made for himself. He doesn’t want to give up his time with this group of misfits that he loves like family, so the thought of leaving comes with a bittersweet element of nostalgia. Hell, he might stick around on the evening shifts with Cho for awhile.

Then again, he might want to keep his evenings free.

“Hey, baby!” Zoe’s voice rings out, and Chris grins. He could set his watch by the guy. There will be no chess game tonight, though. Anton’s long gone, taking an early bus to see his family. He finishes up his scrawls of counts and peeks out over the loft railing, watching as the last customers leave with a jingle while Zach leans on the counter, chatting with Zoe.

“Where is he?” Zach asks, his voice carrying up through the old building.

“Polo,” Chris calls out, resting his hands on the wrought iron railing.

Zach lifts his face to his voice and laughs. “Oh, no fair! No fair, no fair!” 

Chris giggles, watching Zach stick his lip out in a pout while Zoe rolls her eyes, locking the door to start totaling out. Chris lowers his voice, “Come get me.”

“How about you just come down instead.”

“Nope,” Chris presses, “Not this time.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause, there’s something up here I want you to see.” 

Sighing heavily, Zach mops his face before making his way under the floor, and Chris moves to the top of the old wrought-iron spiral stair.

In all the times he’s come to the bookstore in the last year, Zach has never ventured to the second floor loft. He doesn’t enjoy stairs as a rule, though most he’ll navigate with a deep breath and a tight grip on the railing. Freestanding and spiral stairs are a special variety of animosity. He’d once explained there had been a small kitchen fire in another unit of the first apartment building where he’d lived in New York, three floors up. It had been extinguished long before it was a threat, but the mere possibility of no functioning elevators in emergencies or, god forbid, having to use fire escapes had killed any desire he had of living above ground level. Zach’s fears are certainly valid, but he can and has faced some of them. Chris likes to think facing scary shit together makes it easier for them both.

This particular staircase is the jewel of this shop in the old district. It’s actually pretty solid; they’d never be allowed to let people use it otherwise, since it doesn’t quite comply with modern coding. But it does shiver and creak a little bit when someone’s on it, and he gets how that can easily freak Zach out. Chris can see him frowning at the bottom, folding his cane out of the way and using his hands to examine the thing: the railing, the narrow breadth only enough for a single person, the deep height of each riser, the gaping, empty air between each piece of metal filigreed with intricate Art Deco patterns.

“Marco,” his voice wavers as he grips the handrail with white knuckles and steps gingerly up on the first stair.

“Polo,” Chris calls back, knowing his voice is a comfort. “Only fourteen more, you can do it.”

“Fourteen?” Zach says shrilly, “How high up is this loft?”

“I dunno, maybe fifteen feet?”

“Fuck.”

“We are crossing a street, Zachary,” Chris intones with gentleness, watching him take another stair, and another, one hand reaching out to the center post, then to the risers in front of him, going to all fours like a kid. “You can do this.”

“I can do this.”

Chris snickers. Zach is five steps away, and he backs up to give him room. “Polo. When you get to the top, there’s a prize.”

“I get that prize every day,” Zach snarls. 

“I could withhold the privilege.”

“You wouldn’t.” Chris doesn’t answer that, and Zach clambers the rest of the way. “Fuck fuck fuck, Marco,” he reaches the top and wildly feels around for anything solid, finding bookcase and hardwood and nothing. “Chris!”

“Polo,” Chris whispers, darting down to pull Zach away from the empty void behind him and put a solid bookcase against his back, hidden in a private little alcove behind the shelves. “Shhh, you’re fine, you did it!”

“I did it,” Zach murmurs as Chris kisses him soundly, “I hate you a lot.”

“No you don’t.”

“I totally don’t.” He’s breathing hard, pulse hammering, but he’s holding on for dear life and making sweet little noises into Chris’ mouth, and Chris loves him so fucking much.

“Down now?”

“Aww, you don’t wanna look around?” Chris grins, “This is where we keep the naughty section. No kids allowed up here.”

“I dunno, all the books here look the same to me,” Zach says.

Chris laughs softly. “This is my favorite place. It’s actually really nice; there’s a little reading nook with a cushy armchair, and now it’s all decorated with lights and a little tree. JJ even made Anton spray that fake frost shit on the windows.”

Zach wrinkles his nose, “Smells like a cheap pine air freshener.”

“Hey,” Chris counters roguishly, “I got your real Pine fresh scent right here. I smell good.”

Zach snorts a laugh, relaxing slightly. “Do you roll out cotton snow here too? Like in _Edward Scissorhands_?”

“No,” Chris giggles, still leaning into him. “But Christmas lights on palm trees. Think Corona commercials.”

Zach kisses him again, whispering, “Down now.”

“In a minute,” he mutters, necking at him instead. “Still rewarding you.”

“Oh my god, how do we get back down?” Zach freezes up, suddenly realizing the old _what goes up_ adage. “Isn’t there an elevator?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck this bookstore, man,” Zach says. “What if a paraplegic wants to buy a filthy novel?”

Chris pulls back, laughing as he takes Zach’s hand and heads for the stairs. “I guess they’d have to come in and ask, wouldn’t they?”

“Chris!” Zach resists stiffly. “There is a freaking _hole in the floor_ and I don’t know where it is!”

“Hey,” Chris says, stepping down backwards on the first step himself and guiding Zach’s hand to the railing. “I’ll be right in front of you the whole way.”

“If I fall on you, we both die.”

“No we don’t. Have I ever let you fall before?”

“Yes. Twice.” Zach spits, brow taut, clutching the railing while his sneakers search for the edge of the floor.

Chris tilts his head in confusion, “When was the second?”

“I don’t know,” Zach mutters, “Haven’t hit the ground yet.”

It takes Chris a moment to work that one out, giggling as his heart swells twice its size. He takes the hand Zach has on the center post, “In that case, it’s you and me against gravity, right?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“Then trust me,” Chris says, putting Zach’s hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

Zach lets out a resigned breath, and Chris takes another backwards step down, watching Zach bite his lip and his hand squeeze before he dares to take a step down himself.

“That’s it,” he coaxes.

“I don’t like the narrow part.”

“Stay by the railing, then, you’re doing great.”

“I don’t like the railing either!”

Chris is going to have a bruised shoulder later, but Zach follows him all the way down to solid ground, step by careful step. 

Finally at the floor, he pulls him into his arms by the familiar kids table of many chess games. “See? You’re amazing, as usual.”

“Meanie,” Zoe says as she walks by, whacking Chris on the back of his head with a misplaced paperback.

“Hey, don’t make me the bad guy!” he exclaims, “It was a teaching moment!”

Zach rolls his eyes, but sticks unnecessarily close while they finish putting the store in order. They bundle up, shut off the lights and wait while Zoe locks up behind them.

At the bus stop, she hugs them both tightly. “Good luck,” she says, palming both their cheeks, “Shoot me a text or something, let me know how it goes, alright?”

“Likewise,” Chris says, and adds with far more bravado than he feels, “We’ll be fine.”

“I know you will. I know,” she says as the bus screeches up behind her. “Be good.”

“Bring me back something Caribbean, sweetheart!” Zach says, and she laughs, blowing a kiss from her seat at the window as it pulls away. Zach can’t see the worry taut in her face, but Chris does.

Half an hour later, he pulls the car up to the curb in a cul-de-sac and turns off the engine, listening to it tick as he scrubs his clammy palms down his jeans, taking a deep breath in the suburban dim without the radio filling the quiet between them. Zach reaches over the console, catching his hand.

"You're nervous," he says.

Chris looks at their fingers. “Yeah.”

“Your turn to cross a street.”

Chris gives that a wincing smile. “Yeah.”

The quiet stretches, cheesy deer-shaped lawn ornaments moving mechanically in a neighbor’s yard, lights only halfway up a neighboring tree with a small portion blinking and the rest solid. It’s all very familiar, and yet not. Not this time.

“You said they were fine about it,” Zach tries.

“Yeah,” Chris repeats again, tapping his foot against the floorboard as he flips his hand, palms together and weaving their fingers. “I really need this to go right. I feel like… everything in my life is going great and all the stars are aligning the right way and that can’t possibly be good because it’s _me_ and my life is an exercise in Murphy’s Law and everything should come crashing down on my head any minute—”

“Chris,” Zach squeezes, “Breathe.”

He takes a deep, hard breath in and swallows. Zach pulls his hand up, kissing his knuckle, and he knows he gets it. He’s spent so much time feeling vaguely on the outside of normalcy, like he was that water-warped puzzle piece that should have belonged but never quite fit in the picture.

Zach inhales and holds it for a while, blowing it out dramatically, “This isn’t exactly a breeze for me either, you know.”

“I know,” Chris agrees. He feels like a zit-faced teenager all over again. “I’m scared.”

“Me too.” Zach unbuckles his seat belt, pushing open the door to the chilly air and letting his cane snap into place. “Okay. We’re doing this thing. Crossing a street, Chris, let’s go.” 

Chris has no choice but to shake his head and follow, gathering bundles and coming around to let Zach take his arm and walk up to the front stoop. He gnaws his lip and rings the doorbell.

"Bob, Katie, they're here!" Chris mom calls over her shoulder as she pulls the door open. "Ringing the bell as if you didn't grow up in this house. Get out of the cold, come on in!”

"Hey, Mom," Chris says as she relieves him of packages, shrugging out of his coat, taking Zach’s cane so he can get out of his own. He hands it back, his mother busying herself with hanging their coats and taking their presents as his dad and sister bustle in. Gnawing his lip, he reaches again for Zach’s hand, not wanting him to stand in total unfamiliarity alone, but also because he desperately needs the support himself for his own version of a scary staircase. He uses Zach’s returning squeeze to take a deep breath, “Mom, Dad, Katie, this is Zach.”

“Hi,” Zach waves at the foyer wall when he can discern full well the direction they came from. Of course, he would go for being self-deprecating and cute as fuck.

“Well shit, Princess,” Katie crows, “Who knew tall, dark and handsome really is a thing after all.”

“Shush,” Chris whacks her arm, face going red on cue. Zach’s brow quirks with amusement.

“Good to finally meet you, son,” Bob says, being the first to step forward to shake his hand.

Zach clears his throat, his own nerves coming through, “I’m honored, sir. It’s not everyday I meet someone new whose face I actually know already,” he shrugs at their surprised silence, “My parents were big _CHiPs_ fans when I was a kid.”

Bob laughs, “Well, how about that.”

“You never told me that!” Chris hisses.

Gwynne returns from the coat closet. “We’ve heard a lot about you, Zach.”

“Oh good! So all my bad habits should be out of the way,” Zach deadpans, “How I leave the lights on all the time, spend hours reading magazines in the bathroom, throw my dirty clothes on top of the hamper.”

“If you’ve got Christopher finally putting his laundry away, you’re already a keeper in my book. So,” Gwynne says, warmly gripping his hand, “You’re the one who wrapped my baby boy around your finger. Come on, I’ve got a roast in the oven.”

“It smells delicious,” Zach says, taking her arm, “I see where Chris gets his cooking skills from.”

“And I see charm works as well on my kids as it does on me,” she winks at Chris on his other side. “Merry Christmas, boys. Welcome home.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to everyone reading, rereading, and maybe coming to this without the long wait between chapters! I'm so glad you all stuck with me to the end. I loved writing this story and these characters so much.
> 
> This was my first long AU in this fandom, and I have loved and cherished all of your amazing feedback more than you can imagine. Thank you all for that too. I hope you'll be around for my next several stories as well!

_A year and then some later…_

 

“So, what do you think is Keller’s meaning of the phrase, ‘To be banished from Rome is but to live outside of Rome’?”

The class is quiet, some squirming and shifting in end-of-day boredom, one openly doodling, a girl half-way down the right hand row leaning on her hand, gazing out the window.

“Rachel?” Chris prompts, and she jerks her eyes to the front. He sits on the front edge of his desk and folds his arms with a smile. “What do you think?”

She darts another glance out the window, then back, lifting her shoulders. “Because she’d been to deaf and blind schools already, she wanted Radcliffe. She wanted real independence, I guess. She didn’t ask to be… like she is.”

Chris nods, “Maybe. But wanting independence is only part of it. She still needed the help of Mrs. Sullivan. Sometimes everybody needs a little help, regardless of whether or not we are able, right? What else?”

He smiles at her patiently, but she looks at a loss for what else he wants, blushing as she cuts her gaze back out the window.

“She’s busy ogling the blind guy outside,” pipes up another girl, Liv, a seat or so behind in the next row. Liv is both outspoken and sharp as a razor, but tends to come across kind of blunt. Chris likes her a lot. He likes Rachel too, reserved and shy, with writing ability years beyond her level. She slides down in her seat, face flushed pink behind the shiny curtain of her hair. Liv merely raises a brow, craning her neck to see. “He’s kinda hot.”

“Ew, you would go for that, Liv,” mocks one of the popular girls from the back row.

“Damn straight I would,” Liv shoots her a withering look, “Did you even read the book, Brooklyn? What if, tonight at the game, Derek drops you on your head and you’re paralyzed for the rest of your life? Ask yourself if Captain Perfect would still date you if you weren’t the ideal head cheerleader anymore.”

Chris looks mock-sternly at her, but she plows on. “Helen went to regular college because she didn’t want to be invisible, she didn’t want to be hidden away with ‘her own kind’, from people who think they shouldn’t do stuff because they’re less. You can’t even see him from your desk, so you just dismiss him ‘cause he’s blind? Get up and look, Brooklyn. Look at him out there by himself, living his own life. He wants you to see what he can do.”

Others in the class murmur agreement, and Brooklyn blushes red, staying in her seat. “No, I think that’s awesome,” she tries, looking to Chris for support. “Just… he can’t see that I see him being awesome, that’s all. It doesn’t matter either way if I think he’s cool or not, he’s blind, he can’t see me seeing him. Or whatever.”

“Doesn’t it?” Chris asks, leaning forward and raising an eyebrow, “How would he know you think so if you avoid him? How would he know you’re cool too? Do you cease to exist because he can’t see you?”

Brooklyn has no answer for that.

Chris pushes off the desk and paces in front of it, holding his copy of the paperback curled in his hands. “Keller wanted to be with people. It didn’t matter to her that she couldn’t see or hear them physically. She wanted to be seen, to be heard. She wanted to make her mark. Isn’t that a basic human desire in all of us? Why else would she write this book? Lit class isn’t just about required reading and _Romeo & Juliet_, guys, it’s about seeing other perspectives, viewpoints you’d otherwise never encounter yourself. That’s why people write.”

Hell, he’d included this book on his syllabus because he’d come across it when he’d moved into Zach’s apartment, adding more shelves to fit both of their collections. It was one of his own books, read years ago in a high school English class that he’d loved, despite being the nerdy kid gazing out the window himself. It had sat forgotten on his shelf for decades, until now.

He walks over to the window and smiles softly at who he sees outside before he turns his back to it. “What Helen wants you to do is talk to that guy out there, or someone like him, someone different from you. Ask him how he goes through life, what he does for a living, if he has a dog. You might be surprised what he has to say. Eventually, you might realize being blind isn’t the thing that defines who he is. And it doesn’t hold him back either, unless he allows it to.”

The bell chooses this moment to ring and the class erupts in movement. “Alright!” Chris calls above the eruption of noise, “I want your essays on chapters 10-23 finished and turned in by Monday! Stop whining, this book is only 80 pages, guys, come on. Next week we move on to _Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_ , so get started on that over the weekend!”

They all herd towards the door and Chris turns back to peer out at Zach making his way along the row of portable trailers. Being a newly hired teacher at the bottom of the totem pole, Chris doesn’t get first or even last pick of the classrooms inside the school building, but shunted to the temporary overflow double-wides outside. Brooklyn and Rachel hang back by the stairs, both looking over at Zach, who has stopped where he is at the sound of so many people suddenly moving en masse. They exchange a glance—possibly the only time the popular cheerleader has acknowledged Rachel in any way, to Chris’ knowledge—and while Brooklyn hunches over her books and slinks away, Rachel cautiously approaches Zach. He turns towards her, speaking with a smile and she points back to the classroom, then bites her lip and blushes; he clearly can’t see her direction. Zach pushes his sunglasses to top of his head, teeth flashing as he says something else and she smiles back, blushes harder, and trots off after the rest of her class to the main building. Chris grins. _Charming the shit out of my kids, already,_ he thinks.

Liv has hung behind, deliberately gathering her things at a slow pace. Chris tries not to look too excited, but she grins at him anyway, shouldering her backpack and folding her sweater over her arm. “So, see you in a few?”

“Sure,” Chris jogs back to the desk to throw his papers and books in his own bag.

She still hesitates, fiddling with a iron-on patch on her bag. “Sorry I was so mean. Brooklyn deserves it, though. She can’t see anything past her own nose.”

Well,” Chris wavers, “Maybe she’ll give it some thought, now, right?” 

Liv rolls her eyes, “Doubtful.”

He digs in his pocket for a couple of dollars as they head for the door. “Hey, can you get me a snack or something from the machines? Doesn’t matter, chips or trail mix or whatever. We’ll be over in a bit.” 

“Sure thing, Mr. P.” She looks over at Zach again and tosses Chris a wink, whispering, “He is hot, though.”

“Shhh,” he breathes, clearing his throat and scrubbing a hand guiltily through his hair. Figures. Liv is a theater geek, she has a good read on people in general, so he’s pretty sure she’s seen right through him, however ambiguous he’s careful to be. He shoulders his bag and follows her out.

Zach stands at the corner of the adjacent trailer, hand uncertainly reaching for the metal siding his cane taps, then jerking back; it’s hot from the direct sun.

“You alright?” Chris darts a look around before he takes the hand to look. His other arm has a long black umbrella looped in the crook of his elbow.

“It’s fine,” Zach says, sliding the hand up to Chris’ bicep, giving it a squeeze.

“Did you find it okay?” Chris asks, taking the umbrella as he turns them toward the school building.

“More or less,” Zach gives a long suffering sigh, “It was a journey rife with danger, though. I had to get on a bus, off a bus, cross six streets, walk through a parking lot _filled_ with buses…”

“Yeah?” Chris’ smile cracks wide at their inside joke.

Zach shrugs. “Actually, I got a lot of weird looks for carrying an umbrella. Some old lady asked me if it was supposed to rain.”

Laughing, Chris takes them inside the cooler halls. Most of the students are heading home, lockers slamming, shouting, texting and making calls now that phones are allowed out, running down the halls with pencils falling from bags, hurrying to board a bus or find a waiting parent. It takes surprisingly little time for most of them to clear out.

“Hey, Mr. Pine!” call a group of girls coming the opposite direction. “Hi Mr. Pine!”

“Ladies,” he grins as they pass, followed with the usual chorus of giggles.

“Somebody’s popular,” Zach lifts a brow. “Gee, I wonder who their favorite teacher is.”

“I dunno,” Chris grins, “Mr. Pine gives really long, really boring homework essays and wears dorky glasses and grandpa cardigans.”

“Hey, the grandpa cardi is so hot right now.”

“Oh, Mr. Pine!” calls another woman. “Staying late?”

“Got a thing with the Drama Club, Denise,” he waves as they pass her. He murmurs offhand to Zach, “Denise Morgan. She teaches history.”

Zach waits a moment for her heels to click away before arching the other brow at him.

“Shush,” Chris ducks a blush to the floor.

“I didn’t say anything,” Zach grins, “Should I be worried?”

“No, you should not,” Chris whispers. To be honest, he’s surprised at how popular he is with the teachers around here too. He was sure the new guy would be subject to some office ribbing and power plays, but he’s mostly been welcomed with a lot of interest and curiosity. Although, it’s usually the women who are so nice to him, and that’s weird too. He’s not parading Zach around today, exactly, but he kind of wishes he could.

“Is it a nice auditorium?” Zach asks as they make their way across the huge building.

“Oh yeah, great acoustics, wait 'til you see,” Chris says, picking up the pace a little bit. He’d described it to Zach in as much detail as possible, but he knows Zach will want to walk it himself, really get a feel for the size. Zach’s hand tightens on his arm.

“Scared?” he asks, knowing the answer.

“Hell yes,” Zach breathes, but his eyes are bright and excited.

“You’re gonna be great,” Chris reaches his other hand to squeeze the one on his bicep. “I’ve seen you do it a hundred times.”

“I dunno, Chris, I still—”

“We’re here,” Chris says, pulling open the heavy wooden door to the auditorium, taking in the dim lights illuminating the stage, the rest of the banks of seating dark and almost empty, but for a couple early arrivals, Liv among them, lounging across a couple of seats. She smiles, holding up packages of snacks.

Zach stops and inhales, “Oh wow.” He closes his eyes and takes another, breathing deep into his lungs. Chris mirrors him, smelling floor polish, something fresh underneath it—sawdust, maybe, as well as a certain heavy, old mustiness.

“There are wide stairs here, down the aisle between seats,” Chris explains, Zach quickly nodding, letting his cane touch the sides of the seats down to the front.

“Ah, you’re early, good!” the drama teacher strides up to them from the wings, pulling her shawl around her. She’s a fifty-some woman with long and loose frizzy grey hair down her shoulders, almost matronly in appearance but without seeming her age, with a huge love of drama and literature both. Chris had liked her immediately. “Bev Toturo, and you must be Zach. So great to have a fellow CMU alum, though I think I was ahead of you by quite a few years.”

“I wouldn’t know it either way,” Zach smiles, holding his hand out and she shakes it with a laugh. He inhales again, the thick orangey polish smell stronger here. Bev smiles knowingly, “Like coming home, isn’t it?”

Zach shakes his head in awe, his eyes shining. “I didn’t think I’d ever smell that again.”

She smiles at Chris and squeezes Zach’s shoulder, “Well, we’re glad to have you. I bet these kids won’t know what hit them, I’m sure they’ll be thrilled. You’ll like Richie, our Major General Stanley. He’s…”

“Exuberant?” Liz throws out. “Tempestuous?”

“To a fault,” the teacher laughs. “Chris tells me you’ve been practicing?”

“Everyday for a week,” Zach says and Chris smirks. In the living room, the shower, and once, memorably, in bed. Their neighbors haven’t filed a complaint yet, but he’s pretty sure they might. Sometimes Noah howls along.

“Well, let’s get you back up where you belong, right?” Bev says, stepping back to show them the stairs leading up to the stage. “You’ve got some time to walk it through. Kids should all trickle in around twenty minutes or so.”

Zach gnaws at his lip as they walk the width and breadth and entire perimeter of the stage, still empty of set dressings. Finally, Chris steps back, leaving Zach there in the middle, holding his cane folded in his own hands. Zach moves around, getting a feel of the space without it, as he does in their apartment or other familiar spaces. The closed umbrella serves as both prop and replacement.

The Drama Club kids have started filing in, taking seats near the stage and chatting, looking curiously at them. There’s a loud sound of a heavy switch being thrown, the stage lights coming on bright, Liv coming out of the tech room above with a shrug. When Zach stops and turns his eyes directly up at them, Chris sees Bev lift a hand in warning, then pull it back. He shoots her a smile, looking back at Zach, his eyes and face ablaze like in full sunlight. 

“Okay,” Zach says, a grin coming to his face, closing his eyes again as he shakes his head, putting a hand over his heart. “I get why you’re making me do this.”

Chris steps farther away, jumping down from the stage to give Zach all of it. “I don’t make you do anything,” he murmurs, knowing his voice carries in this room. “You love it up there.”

“Alright everyone,” Beverly calls, clapping her hands for attention, “You remember, we have a guest today. He was in _Pirates of Penzance_ when he was your age, and I’m told,” she looks at Richie specifically, waggling her eyebrows, “His ‘Modern Major General’ is second to none. It better be, he won the Gene Kelly Award. I give you, Mr. Zachary Quinto!”

Chris gives two sharp raps of his knuckles on the edge of the stage in front of Zach, sees him nod at hearing it. With Bev starting the familiar notes of the song on the piano, he takes a deep breath, straightens up tall and proud, lifts his chin to the audience, and sings.

 

THE END


End file.
